No Rest for the Wicked
by VitaSeptima
Summary: It was the code – blood for blood. An officer's death cannot go unanswered. But nothing is ever neatly tied up, especially when the Russians are involved. Harry's move to avenge Ruth's death leads to unforeseen consequences and an unexpected revelation. Even the best spies don't know all the secrets.
1. Chapter 1

"_Wait for it_."

The words floated to him on a whisper, slipping into his ear, sending a sigh through his veins. A flutter stirred in his dormant heart, chambers opening, one slow beat and then another, falling into a steady rhythm. He inhaled, filling his lungs with an achingly familiar scent, memories blossoming as he suspended his breath willing the sensation to linger. The weight of her body pressed down on his chest, warm and supple, skin against skin. A wave of satisfaction rippled through him and a smile grew on his lips, the last drop of sadness vanishing. He would trade his soul to remain in this place forever. A sound hovered on the edge of his bliss, a buzz, like a fly, pricking at the corners of his contentment. He frowned, willing it away, coaxing the sense of peace to return. Her cheek moved against his, and he turned his head searching for her mouth. So close. Arms leaden with exhaustion, he stirred in an effort to embrace her, but he could not rouse his limbs. The dark shadow of panic eclipsed the sun, and his breath drew sharp in his lungs. Something was wrong. If he did not hold her, she would leave. The sound intruded once more, harsher, threatening to tear her away. No - he would not let her go.

Buzz.

The ring of his mobile cleaved through the layers of sleep, ripping through the gauze of his dream. A moan of despair left his lips and his fingers moved in the air, clutching at the wisps of her image. The fragrance of her skin still filled his nostrils. It was real, it had to be; she was with him.

"Stay with me," he whispered, but it was too late; his entreaty was lost in the darkness of his room.

Technology, cold and unfeeling, had no stake in remembrance. The device rang louder, driving away the last vestiges of her ethereal form. Cold reality stole in and spread across his chest. Contentment vanished giving way to the all familiar ache of loneliness.

The phone buzzed again.

Flinging an arm over his eyes, Harry growled at the intrusion.

"Leave me alone."

The phone did not listen. He knew who it was - Erin Watts, attempting once again to reach him. Let her try, he had been ignoring her calls for days. He was on leave; he didn't have to speak to anyone. The official designation was compassionate leave but the truth of it was there was no compassion to be had in this cruel world. It made no sense. With every other loss, he had successfully buried his grief in his work; careening emotions kept in check by the guardrails of ever demanding national emergencies. This time it was different. He had lost a part of himself – the better part. He had been cut off at the legs, and like Ozymandias he was nothing more than the decay of a colossal wreck. His descent had not happened overnight, in fact, he had prided himself on how quickly he had returned to work, the bindings of self-control completely intact. He ignored the fissures of grief but they grew deeper, pieces falling away. The authority in his voice wavered, the sharp knife of his memory dulled, and the once clear command of his decisions - diluted. Railing at everyone, he had sat in his office and salved his wounds the only way he knew how - excessive amounts of alcohol. Until one morning, still under the influence of the bottle from the night before, he had arrived late and found the Home Secretary sitting in wait. When Towers had diplomatically suggested that Harry recuse himself to find his equilibrium, he did not protest. The desert of loss had overtaken him and he was done.

Buzz.

"Go to hell."

Voice hoarse from lack of use, Harry rolled toward the sound and gave the device and angry swat, knocking it off the bedside table. It hit the floor with a soft thump, followed by the deeper thud of a crystal tumbler. One eye cracked open. An empty bottle of scotch stared back at him.

"Don't look at me like that."

The phone, chastised by his swat, stopped ringing. Muscles groaned in protest as he sat up, blinking as the uncooperative world tipped on its axis. Through the shroud of darkness, an annoying sliver of sun forced its way between a crack in the curtains. The air hung close around him, stale with perspiration and despair. He closed his eyes and ran a hand over his face, the stubble of uncounted days growth scratching his palm. He couldn't recall when he had last had a shower, or indeed, what day it was. He searched the ground with his foot, his toe finding the offending mobile. He bent over and picked it up. One eyebrow lifted in surprise as he read the call display. Towers. It was one thing to ignore his Section Chief, another thing entirely to ignore the Home Secretary. His thumb turned off the phone with a definitive push. Hang them all. Unable to move any further, he remained sitting, head bowed, arms resting on his knees, the phone dangling limply in his hand. He should get up, he should eat, but the chances of finding any food in the pantry were slim. Beneath his foot, something pressed discreetly through his sock. He bent down and searched with his hand. His fingers found the links of a delicate chain and he hastily retrieved it. He examined it in the dim light, assuring himself that it was not broken. Clumsy fool. In his irritation, he had knocked her necklace to the floor, the one tangible connection that he still had with her. Holding it as if it were a lifeline, he clutched it to his chest. The chain had sat around her neck and touched the skin that his fingers would never trace, the charm had rested in the hollow of her throat, the taste his lips would never know. It was far too precious to be mishandled. He had not been able to protect the owner; he would do a far better job protecting her memory. He opened the small drawer on the bedside table and carefully laid the necklace inside.

A chime from the front doorbell peeled through the house. Harry scowled at the empty room. He would not answer it. If he waited long enough they would give up and leave. Undeterred, the visitor persisted. The sharp rap of a knock had replaced the bell. Harry silently commended the bravery of the soul who dared to knock on his door.

"Go away," he muttered.

He would shun the world. He could live like this for the rest of his days. Whiskey and solitude. He had been far too quick to judge Alec White when he had found the man living in abject squalor after being tossed out by the Service. There was a comfort to be found in the lack of order, free from a schedule, beholding to no one, finding solace in the numbing embrace of alcohol. All Harry needed was a nubile young woman asleep on his couch and his descent into the degenerate world of a disgraced spy would be complete.

The polite rapping on the front door turned into a banging fist. Harry heaved himself off of the bed. If the visitor was intent on receiving his wrath, he would certainly oblige. In all likelihood, it would be Erin, sent by the Home Office. Or Callum - he had seen the young man lurking about outside the house, no doubt having drawn the short straw to keep an eye on his erstwhile former boss. Harry descended the stairs, and with one final step, grabbed the door handle, angrily opening the door.

Towers stood, his hand in the air, poised mid-knock, a look of surprise on his face.

"Jesus wept, Harry, you look terrible."

Mouth drawn in a grim line, Harry reduced his full displeasure at Tower's appearance into one louring gaze. Towers at least had the grace to look chagrined.

"May I come in?"

Giving no reply, Harry turned and walked back into the house, leaving the door open and the decision up to Towers. The click of the door and the sound of footsteps told Harry that the Home Secretary had decided to follow behind. On the kitchen counter stood a tower of takeaway containers, and Harry rummaged through their contents. Rewarded with a half-eaten egg roll, he sojourned his pride and took a bite.

"Christ, Harry, what's happened to you?" Towers looked about the room, disdain on his face, hands still gloved, lest bureaucracy be sullied.

Harry gazed about the room, seeing it through Towers' eyes - dishes piled in the sink, doors half open, dirty clothes strewn across chairs. He shrugged his shoulders and took a bite of the eggroll.

"I'm on leave."

"You were supposed to get yourself together."

"This is as together as it gets."

Towers inhaled a fortifying breath. "I need you back."

Harry finished chewing the cold eggroll and licked the crumbs from his fingers before he answered. "You told me to take as much time as I needed."

"The world moves on whether we're ready or not."

"You missed your calling as a counsellor." Harry poked through the cartons searching for more food, the eggroll sitting unpleasantly in the pit of his stomach. A band of steel tightened around his head and the taste of cotton wool filled his mouth. God, he needed a drink.

Ignoring Harry's comment, Towers continued. "Events have unfolded. It seems that your countermeasure to Miss Evershed's death has had some unforeseen repercussions."

Harry froze. The cavalier mention of her name stung like a whip, his chest caving in from the pain. The need for alcohol increased tenfold. Beneath the debris, he found a glass and a bottle. His hand shook, the neck of the bottle clinking against the glass. He would be fine once the scotch was in his system.

"Harry, you can't live like this."

"I'm leaving the Service."

"We can have that discussion at a later date." Eyeing the drink in Harry's hand, Towers inched closer.

Harry looked down into the glass. "I told her I would step down after the mess with the Gavriks was over."

Towers reached out for the glass. "The mess with the Gavriks isn't over."

Unwilling to relinquish his hold, Harry tightened his grip on the tumbler. "I'm done with them."

"The Russians aren't done with you. Lavarov was a powerful man, he had high ranking friends. The shadow of his death falls over you."

"I recall a phone call where you tacitly approved of whatever measures I might take."

"Someone needed to pay for the whole sordid mess. I was very fond of Ruth too."

Harry's fingers flexed on the tumbler. No one else had the right to say her name. She was his.

"It would seem with this whole debacle, Gavrik has also made some enemies." Towers straighten the lapels of his coat. "He is now persona non-grata in Moscow."

"I don't give a tinker's damn if Gavrik can't go back to Russia."

"They blame him and you for Elena's death."

"Me?" Harry asked astounded by the accusation.

"You were there."

"But it wasn't my hands around her neck." Harry raised the glass to his mouth. "Though the thought had crossed my mind."

"The Kremlin has put out an Interpol warrant on you."

Harry halted the glass before the alcohol touched his lips.

"There is a concern that you might be in danger. Come back under the umbrella, Harry. We can protect you."

"I find it hard to believe that your only concern is my safety."

"Gavrik wants protection. In return, he's willing to talk to us." Towers gave Harry a level gaze. "More specifically - to you."

"I'm done with him." Harry slammed his glass on the counter. "With everything. I want out."

"To do what, Harry?" Towers waved his arm in a sweeping gesture about the room. "Good god man, she wouldn't want you living like this."

Harry turned away, unable to answer the question. He could find no words to refute the man, not because Towers was wrong, but because he was right.

"I'll give you a month," Harry relented.

It was thirty days more than he would have liked, but if he was to live in purgatory he might as well stay busy.

...

The door hinge gave a low groan of protest as Harry stepped out of his house. The cool air nipped at his ears and he drew the collar of his coat tighter, adjusting his scarf around his neck. Instinct bade him scan the street, and he gave a cursory glance to a dog walker and a cyclist. Assured of no immediate threat, he walked toward the waiting car. The gunmetal sky lorded overhead, its grey weight bearing down on him. Do it by rote until it all comes back. He slid into the backseat of the car and gave the driver a curt nod. It was a new man, perhaps a sign of a fresh start. Closing his eyes, Harry sank into his seat, the energy for small talk eluding him. There was no sense in creating a connection with a new person - everyone left him in the end.

The ever-grinding bustle of the city moved past his window. The same route to the same destination, some things had not changed. The car squeezed through the crush of morning traffic, and Harry gazed out the window with an unseeing eye. A group of commuters stood huddled around a bus stop, shivering in the early morning frost. Dismissing them, Harry looked away silently thankful that he was in a car. His mind though held onto a piece of the picture, and as it sifted through the scene, a detail revealed itself. Harry swung his head back around.

"Stop!" he ordered the driver.

Without asking for a reason, the driver slowed down and pulled over to the side of the road. Before the car had come to a full stop, Harry opened the door and jumped out. Shoes barely touching the pavement, he pushed his way through a wall of oncoming pedestrians, straining against the tide of people until the pole of the bus stop came into view. On the far side of the group, wrapped in a grey trench coat, stood a woman. Her dark head was bent low over a book, the curtain of her hair falling forward, obscuring her face. The beat of his heart doubled, banging against his ribs. It had to be her. He stood torn between reason and desire. Logically, it didn't make sense unless the acute ache of his heart had manifested her. Yes, fate must have taken pity on him. Three more steps took him closer. He reached out and lightly tapped the small shoulder. The woman turned around. His heart sank, falling like a ball of lead into his stomach.

"Sorry," he murmured, "I thought you were…" The rest of the sentence faded away.

The woman gave him an angry scowl and stepped back into the protective anonymity of the crowd. A bus pulled up and the crowd jostled around him. The door hissed open swallowing the mirage and spiriting her away. Harry stood with his arms hanging limply at his side. It was an affliction to which there was no cure. In the dark, it was always the echo of her voice, but during the day he saw her everywhere - a glimpse of dark hair, the flash of a coat, the tilt of a head. Always on the periphery but never in his arms. Destiny did not care - heaven would always be tantalisingly out of reach. He walked back to the waiting car.

"Everything alright, sir?" the driver inquired.

Harry could only nod, afraid that his voice might crack under the weight of disappointment. Towers was right; he could not live like this. Locked away, conjuring up the dead. He had not fought so many battles to give up now. Harry straightened up in his seat and set his gaze determinedly forward. He would reach down and pull out his old self, kicking and screaming if need be. It was not the end for him, he had merely pressed paused. He would go forward, slowly.

The towering doors of Thames House rose before him, and Harry stood beneath their arches, a wave of nerves overtaking him. Pull yourself together, man. Adrenaline, that's what it was, not nerves. He crossed over the threshold, an actor stepping onto a stage and into a familiar role. He had only to speak a few lines and it would all come back. As he crossed the floor, the click of his heels gave a reassuring echo, and the speed of his gait increased, each step working to rebuild his confidence, reminding him of the man he was.

Stepping out of the pod doors, he paused, taking a moment to acclimatise himself and scan the Grid. Nothing had changed in his absence. Good. He gave a silent thanks to the Fates. There was always the chance that the place would fall victim to some iteration of an efficiency expert, walls moved, partitions erected, desks changed - but the layout was reassuringly familiar. Three desks sat empty, their monitors glowing with the department's screensavers. They were already here, his team, consistent, dependable - an underpinning that would brace him until he was fully back to normal. Enroute to his office, his eyes fell on two other desks. They too were empty, but their computers were dark and blank, their owners destined never to return. They needed to have a memorial service for Tariq; he had been a fine young man. But her….his throat constricted. Keep moving, don't look back.

His office had remained in state, undisturbed since the day he had left. He had spent more time within those walls than the rooms of his own house. This was his home. Muscle memory took over, as he undid his overcoat, his reach finding the coat rack without sight. He crossed to the credenza and grabbed a decanter. The scotch sloshed around inside the container and he studied it with a wary eye. Saliva grew in his mouth as the back of his throat anticipated the burn of the liquid. He lifted the decanter and placed it neatly inside the cupboard. Out of sight out of mind. Pleased with his first act of reclamation, he sat in his chair and smiled as he noted its comfort. The chair had not been altered. Erin had not sat at his desk while he had been away. He flipped open a folder and scanned the notes. He had to face his team at some point - better to rip the bandage off in one go.

The chatter of voices stopped abruptly as Harry walked into the briefing room. Forgoing any greeting, he headed straight toward an empty chair and gave no sign of acknowledgement as he took his seat. The weight of three pairs of eyes sat on him. Taking his time, he straightened his tie, realigned the cuff of his shirt with his jacket sleeve, concentrating on the ritual. Weaving his fingers together, he placed his hands on the table with the solemnity of a judge. Only then did his eyes scan the assemblage gathered around him.

"I assume that we are all here to work."

The team released a collective sigh. Papers shuffled, chairs moved, postures were relaxed.

"Good to see you too, Harry," Callum quipped quietly, but not quietly enough.

Harry's lip twitched as he dampened a smile.

"Bring me up to speed, Ms Watts."

Erin shuffled in her seat and opened up a file. "Gavrik wants to continue with his intelligence sharing, albeit without the blessing of the Kremlin. I suspect he might be more forthcoming considering his former associates are now out to get him and he needs us."

"Do we have a course of action?"

"There is a meeting arranged for this afternoon," Erin continued. "We're ready to act on any useful information that may result from it."

Harry nodded. "The boy..." Strange how he still referred to him as a child even though the man had displayed a callous viciousness. "What's happening with Sasha?"

"He's been remanded," said Callum. "There's a debate about diplomatic immunity."

"There will be no immunity," Harry stated with an eerie calmness.

The room grew quiet and a chill descended. No one dared speak until Harry broke the silence.

"Any thoughts on a memorial for Tariq?"

"Yes, I'm looking after that," Callum volunteered.

"Good."

Erin took up the conversation. "I'm willing to look after the one for-" Her voice broke off unsure if she should say the name.

"Ruth," Harry finished. The name crossed his lips with the heaviness of a foreign word though he had uttered it countless times in his dreams. His eyes rose to the crest that dominated the far wall of the room, the letters of the motto echoing in his head.

Regnum defende. Whatever the cost.


	2. Chapter 2

"_Stay with me." _

Warm words whispered across her skin, seeping into her pores, thawing the marrow of her frigid bones. Yes, her lips moved in a soundless reply, she would stay with him. Forever.

In the darkness, time was suspended and there was only him. A wave crashed upon a distant shore, and as it receded precious air filled her lungs. Blood surged through her heart, a tremor building into a solid beat. Fingers grazed across her cheek, along her throat, tracing the line of her shoulder, skimming down her arm. His body moved against hers, infusing her with a liquid heat, his thigh pressing against her leg. Tension eased from her rigid muscles, sinews melting on a breathless sigh. As long as he lay beside her, she was safe. There was nothing to fear in this tiny piece of heaven. Her hand stirred, longing to touch him but her arm was caught, tangled in an unknown force. The chains of guilt, remorse, the strings of a thousand missed chances, she strained against their weight aching to be free. A faint wind stirred a lock of her hair, disturbing her sense of peace, the breeze erasing his touch from her skin. He lifted his weight from her body and the cold wind took his place. No, don't stop. Lips dry, mouth parched, she could barely whisper.

"Come back to me."

The fingers returned, pressing against the pulse at her wrist. She struggled to say his name but could only whimper. A voice called to her. She moved her head, searching. A light appeared near the edge of the darkness and she strained to see it. All she had to do was open her eyes and he would be there.

Lids heavy with days of sleep, Ruth's eyes fluttered open. Sunlight pooled under the hem of a pair of unfamiliar curtains and she blinked, disoriented by the sight. Rose coloured wallpaper decorated with tiny yellow flowers stared back at her. This was not her flat. Her mind stumbled over itself as she puzzled out her location. A realisation slowly blossomed in her consciousness and her heart became unbound, rising joyfully in her breast. It was her cottage by the sea. It had all been a nightmare and she was safe in her new home. A smile broke across her lips, the weight of a thousand worries lifting from her chest, replaced by a blanket of contentment. She turned in the bed, but the movement of her arm remained constricted. Her eyes travelled down to her wrist, veins a dark purple, inserted with a length of rubber tubing. A silver pole stood by the bed, holding a bag of clear solution that drained with a slow, methodical drip. Her eyes widened, panic rushing through her. This wasn't her cottage. She moved her head and looked up into the smiling face of a young woman.

"You're awake. Good."

"Where am I?" Ruth asked hoarsely.

"Don't worry. You are safe here."

"Who are you?"

"I am Anna, your nurse."

The young woman spoke in accented English, Eastern European Ruth surmised. With practised hands, she fitted Ruth's arm with a blood pressure cuff, swiftly inflating the pump, nodding as the air slowly hissed out. Calculating the numbers, she gave Ruth a look of approval.

"Your vitals are good. We can get you off of the drip and onto some solid food. Let me take a look at your sutures first."

Ruth frowned unable to parse what the woman meant. She closed her eyes, images from a fractured landscape flashing through her memory. Grass and sky. Sasha. The shard of glass. She had stepped in front of Harry.

"Harry," she whispered. "Where's Harry?"

"I'm sorry, I don't know who that is," the nurse apologised.

"Is there someone who knows?"

"I'll let them know you are awake."

"Who are they?" An anxious knot formed in Ruth's stomach.

"I am only a nurse," the woman answered, the confidence in her smile waning. "Can I move your gown for a moment?" She gently lifted the fabric of the drape and carefully peeled off the bandage on the underside of Ruth's rib. "It looks very good. Slight redness but that is because it is healing. We will take the sutures out in a week. Are you in any pain?"

"No." Not physical pain, only the pain of the unknown, a dilemma that Ruth hated even more.

"We will get you up walking. But you must not do too much. No heavy lifting." The nurse wagged her finger in mock warning. "I will teach you some breathing exercises to help you heal."

The solicitous demeanour of the nurse did nothing to quell Ruth's rising anxiety.

"If I'm alright, I would like to go home."

"I am sorry but you cannot."

"Why not?" Ruth asked, a hint of outrage seeping into her voice. "Am I a prisoner here?"

Flustered by the question, the nurse looked toward the door. "No, no. But you are not allowed to leave."

"Well, that's the very definition of a prisoner, isn't it?" Ruth retorted tartly.

Confusion crossed the woman's face, unable to unravel Ruth's semantics. Her hand hovered above Ruth's stomach as she held an alcohol-soaked swab and a sterile gauze. She looked at Ruth with pleading eyes. "Please, let me clean your wound and then I will find someone for you to talk to."

Ruth studied the nurse, a twinge of sympathy surfacing for the woman who obviously knew nothing but still bore the sting of her questions. Ruth had been in that position many times herself. She nodded, her mouth forcing itself into a tilted a half smile as she adjusted her strategy, recognising that it would be better to have this woman as a friend rather than a foe. She ran her fingers through the lank strands of her hair feeling slightly dirty and unkempt. How long had she been here?

"Can I at least take a shower?"

The nurse, somewhat mollified, gave a tentative smile. "If you keep the wound covered."

"And clothes. Can I get some of my clothes?"

"I will see what I can do." The nurse quickly wrote on the strip of the bandage as she finished covering the wound.

Relenting, Ruth settled back into her pillow, deciding on a different route to gather information.

"Your accent. Where is it from?"

"I am Polish."

For a brief second, the thought flashed across Ruth's mind that she was in Poland. No, that would be ridiculous. There was a justifiable explanation for all of this. Harry would walk through the door as he always did and all would be revealed. The nurse was only working on a need to know basis. Compartmentalised information. Nothing untoward was happening, she was obviously receiving proper care. The nurse eased the tubes from Ruth's arm with a practised hand, dabbing the bruises left behind.

"I will be back with some clothes and I will tell them to talk to you." The woman cleaned up her tools and then motioned to a door. "The shower is through there. Put this over top." She handed Ruth a small plastic bag and a roll of medical tape.

Ruth nodded, remaining placidly supine while she waited for the nurse to leave. As soon as the door clicked shut, she threw off the covers and sat up. The stitch of a needle stabbed into her side and she gasped in pain. Hitching her breath, she covered the wound with a protective hand. The room tipped before her eyes and she swayed as her head reeled. It would be wise to heed the advice of the nurse. With greater caution, she swung her legs over the bed and sat for a moment until the room settled back into place. She gently eased herself onto the floor, her toes curling as they touched the freezing wood. There were no slippers to be seen. No dressing gown either. Drawing the institutional green hospital gown tightly around her body, she tiptoed over to the door and tried the knob. It was unlocked. She peered out into the hall, empty except for a threadbare runner on the floor and dark wood walls. She ventured out a few more steps into the silence. If she was a prisoner the door would be locked. There had to be another explanation. She made her way to the landing at the top of the stairs. Conversation wafted from the floor below. The sounds of the nurse and a man, followed by words from a different male voice. Acknowledging she could not run a gauntlet of people in her current state, she retreated to her room. Crossing to the window, she pulled back the curtains. The panes were made of a frosted glass, giving her no view of the outside world. What was going on without her? She consoled herself with the thought that if she couldn't see out, at least no one could see in.

Ruth opened the remaining door and was pleasantly surprised to find a small bathroom. The space had evidently seen years of use but it was clean and functional. Searching for towels, she opened a built-in cupboard that sat next to the sink. Inside, there was a stack of white towels rough from years of washings. She took two and saw the outline of a tiny door. She ran curious fingers over the wood. There was no handle or hinges; perhaps it was for access to the plumbing. At in rate, she would have to drink a shrinking potion to use it. She closed the door and focused on the promise of a shower.

Plastic carefully placed across her wound, she stepped under the water, the warm stream tempering her curiosity, anxious thought swirling down the drain. The only thing she could do was summon her patience and wait for Harry.

…

In through the nose, out through the mouth, tiny muscles expanding and contracting, filling the alveoli of her lungs. The marvels of the human body and its ability to heal from trauma. If only the heart were so resilient. Ruth studied the tiny patterns in the frosted glass as she practised the exercises that the nurse had demonstrated. She sat in a worn wingback chair, cradling a pillow against her ribs, protection against the strain of an unexpected cough. Squirming in her seat, her fingers pulled at the collar of her itchy wool turtleneck. Years ago, she had been a fan of that style of garment but now she found the high-necked collar singularly constricting. It wasn't as if she had been given any choice in her current wardrobe. The orange wool top had appeared along with a brown tweed skirt, the epitome of style - from fifty years earlier. It was certainly not the outfit in which she had hoped to meet Harry.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Even though her mind had grappled with recollection, her lungs remembered everything from that day. The weight on her chest, the gasping strain, slowly suffocating. Breath, life, gone. She was certain she had died. Pieces of a conversation flitted in and out of her memory. He had asked her about her house. She had told him everything. Words that she had never dared utter before. Wonder of wonders, he had agreed to live with her. Perhaps he had only conceded to the idea because he thought she was dying. No matter- she would hold him to it. She would hold him to his other promise as well; that he would leave the Service with her. The corners of her lips tugged, unable to suppress the happiness that bubbled within her heart. Her fingers clutched at the neck of her jumper, raising it up over her mouth to cover a secret smile. Finally, fate had seen it fit to give her a reprieve, they had been given a second chance; how rare, how fortunate.

Knuckles rapped faintly on her bedroom door. She sat up, her heart thumping in her chest. Harry. Frozen to her seat, overwhelmed with expectation, she could barely speak above a whisper.

"Come in."

A man entered. Casually dressed, he was tall and thin with a shock of dark hair. Felled by disappointment, the bottom fell out of her heart. He greeted her with a solemn smile, as he grabbed a ladder back chair from the other side of the room. He brought it in front of her and sat down. On closer inspection, he was younger than she was, but fitted with a weary edge of experience.

"Hello, Ruth. I'm Mark Wilson." He held out his hand. "I'm here to answer your questions."

Relief trickled through her body and Ruth held out her hand, taking comfort in the man's firm grip.

"Where am I?" she asked without preamble. "What's happening?"

"Do you remember anything?"

"I remember that the plane was stopped. The bomb was just a ruse. I remember that I was talking to Harry…" She glanced at Wilson to see if he knew to whom she was referring. He gave her a quick nod of understanding. "Sasha came from the bunker, he had a piece of glass, he was after Harry. I was on the ground. Was I in a hospital? I'm not sure. Then waking up here."

"You know that Elena Gavrik is dead?"

Lips pressed together, Ruth looked down at the floor; her only answer, a short nod.

"The Russians are blaming us," Wilson continued.

Ruth shot him a look of surprise. "But wasn't it Ilya Gavrik who killed her?"

"They say you were involved."

Ruth's mouth opened but she was unable to formulate a rebuttal. There was an element of truth to his statement. She had effectively signed the woman's death warrant by giving Gavrik the key to the room. There was no mistaking what was in Gavrik's heart that day. She had warned the team to stand ready, to take action if needed but they had not been quick enough.

"So what does that mean?" she asked in a deflated whisper, her dreams of a life after the Service slowly taking on water.

"There have been some diplomatic salvos. Various parties looking for retribution. That's why you're here."

The secrecy, the solitude, the mystery revealed. "Is this some sort of safe house?"

"Yes," Wilson confirmed. "I'm with Six. We're going to keep you safe here."

"Six?" Ruth echoed. "Why Six? Why isn't Five looking after this?" Her chest moved with short rapid breaths, wrestling for understanding. "Where is Harry?"

Wilson leaned forward and clasped his hands together on his knees as he inhaled a slow breath.

"Ruth, I'm sorry to tell you this but Harry is dead."

Air evaporated from her newly healed lungs and she gasped, searching for oxygen. The despair of damp earth revisited her bones. "No, he can't be, he's..." Her voice abandoned her. Harry couldn't be dead. He was invincible; he had outlasted countless officers, survived bombs and bullets. He couldn't die because he was...he was... Harry. She could not find the words to articulate the concept to the man in front of her.

Wilson looked at her with sympathy. "It's true."

"No." It was a plea for him to change his answer but none was forthcoming. Still refusing to believe the man, she demanded answers of her own. "How?"

"There was a meeting with Gavrik. It went sideways. It was a setup and Harry was killed."

The reality of Wilson's words sank in and her throat constricted. A shudder ran through her body as it reeled from the overwhelming loss. Sense and feeling shut down, and she willed herself not to cry in front of this stranger. But tears do not listen, and drops welled up in her eyes, breaking free and sliding slowly down her cheek. She wiped one away with the back of her hand.

"I'm sorry. I know it's a lot to take in." Wilson leaned in closer. "I know you might be in shock now, but we need your help."

"Me?" she whispered. "What can I do?"

"You have firsthand knowledge of the Gavriks, you've researched them. Ilya Gavrik has amassed a small fortune."

"He has a stake in an oil company," she added. "Gazprom."

"That's the tip of the iceberg. There's more. Help us find his money so we can take him down. Can you do that for us, Ruth?"

She stared down at her hands, an abandoned child. "I want to go home."

"It's not safe out there for you, Ruth. They will hunt you down too."

She gave the man a dispassionate look; at that point, she didn't care if they hunted her down. "I can't do anything hidden away in this room."

"We have a work station set up across the way; computers, servers, access to anything you might need. Once we've flushed out all the players, you can move forward with your life."

Her shoulders slumped. There was no going forward. Wilson reached out and touched her hand.

"Do it for Harry."

The tender core that she had revealed only moments before, sank back into the recesses of her being, shuttering itself and disappearing, leaving only hard resolve in its stead. Blood for blood. That's what he would say. If their positions were reversed, he would avenge her death; she would do the same for him. She would track down Gavrik's Achilles heel and twist a knife in it. She would take him down where it would hurt him the most, financially. Clenching her mouth, she looked directly at Wilson and nodded her assent.

"Good." He stood up from his chair. "Get some rest today and we'll start fresh with everything tomorrow."

As Wilson headed toward the door, she stopped him with her voice. "I heard other voices downstairs."

"That's Eddie and Frank. They're here to protect you. If you need anything you can just ask them."

What she needed, they could not give. Seeing that she had no further response, Wilson left the room, his shoes silent on the hardwood floor.

The world on the other side of the frosted glass held no interest for her now. Somehow, in the depths of her soul, she had already guessed the outcome. Wicked deeds were never rewarded. Her hand balled into a fist and she slammed it against her thigh, the cry that she had suppressed escaping from her mouth. The pain of her stitches and the wound in her heart were indistinguishable. Fool, deluding herself with fanciful thoughts of their reunion; a home, a life together. The fact was she did remember the details of that day. She remembered her last words to him. They were never meant to have those things.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N- Thank you so much for reading and reviewing. I'm glad there are still a few souls left out there. I can't promise all the chapters will be up quickly, but I couldn't resist putting up the first few._

* * *

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The rays of a rare winter sun bounced off the row of gleaming townhouses, their white facades giving no indication of darker intentions. Harry stepped out of the car and craned his neck, registering the four stories of opulence that rose before him. Gavrik had wasted no time in ensconcing himself in one of the better enclaves of Belgravia. It was already hard enough to muster any form of sympathy for the man, but seeing that he now lived in the lap of luxury made it impossible. The salary for a Foreign Minister must be quite generous, Harry mused, though he knew that Gavrik, like other former KGB officers, had no doubt taken advantage of Russia's chaotic dance with capitalism, and benefited from its spoils. The sun afforded no heat, and Harry pulled his overcoat tighter around his torso, an action he was performing with greater regularity these days. Old bones, he cursed, weary, susceptible to chill. He would retire when this was over; find a place where the sun delivered a divine warmth as promised. The echo of a second car door reverberated down the quiet street. A strapping young lad in a suit and sunglasses came to stand beside Harry. Clean cut, no-nonsense, Harry racked his brain to recall the young man's name. Trevor, that was it.

"Thank you, Trevor, but I don't need you for this."

"Sorry sir, orders."

Trevor glanced around, finger pressed against the comms device in his ear as he ran a quick reconnoitre of the street, sizing up the surroundings. A woman walked by with a pram, the child inside screaming.

"Yes," Harry muttered under his breath. "If there's anything I need protection against, it's a wailing baby."

Ridiculous that he should be assigned a bodyguard; the attention it drew to his presence outweighed any potential security benefit. He had lasted this long on nerve and wits. Besides, if someone wanted him dead, they would find a way. Resigned to the presence of a babysitter, Harry trudged up the steps to the ornate front door. Like a puppy at his master's heels, Trevor followed behind. Harry pressed a gloved finger on the doorbell, acknowledging that he had approached dental appointments with more enthusiasm. A thud sounded on the other side of the door followed by numerous clicks as various locks were released. Harry gritted his teeth in dread. A bald man with a tree trunk of a body opened the door. It would seem that Gavrik had also upgraded his protection. One step in and Harry was stopped by a hand coming up to his chest. A different man, younger and with hair, motioned for Harry to take off his overcoat. Harry took off the garment, and the bodyguard proceeded to pat his suit jacket.

"Is this really necessary?" Harry asked.

Ignoring Harry's question, the man finished his search in silence. Satisfied that the visitor was clean, he motioned for Harry to follow him. Trevor, to his consternation, was told to remain. He looked to his boss for guidance. Harry gave him a curt nod, assuring the young man that he would be fine. In truth, he was relieved for the respite from the continued presence. Double doors opened up into a large sitting room; the morning sun streaming through the floor to ceiling windows. Hands in his pockets, Gavrik stood silhouetted against the glass.

"I'm glad that you decided to come."

Harry cringed at the oil of the man's voice, a sound he had prayed that he would never have to hear again. "I didn't have much choice."

Without waiting for an invitation, Harry crossed to a chair and took a seat. Ceremony was for politicians. His eyes swept over the room taking in the plush carpet, chairs upholstered in rich brocade, a sideboard fitted with expensive crystal.

"I see that you have fallen on hard times."

Gavrik drew back the sheer curtain that covered the window. A lattice of wrought iron bars crisscrossed the pane. "It is a gilded cage."

"Forgive me if I find it hard to sympathise."

Gavrik turned back into the room and gave a nod of dismissal to his bodyguard. Harry waited until the door had clicked shut.

"Ex-KGB?"

"Ex-Mossad," Gavrik corrected. "I don't trust the Russians."

"Very wise." Harry pursed his lips, subverting a smile, the irony of the statement too rich to go unnoticed.

Gavrik moved to the sideboard, crystal clinking as he collected two glasses. He twisted a lid from a bottle and held it up to Harry.

"Scotch, as I recall."

"Water if you have it."

Gavrik shrugged his shoulders and poured a glass for himself. "Are you turning over a new leaf, Harry?"

"Just trying to keep my wits about me."

"For me, vodka sharpens my wits."

Gavrik handed Harry his non-alcoholic drink, taking a seat directly across from his guest. Harry nodded his thanks and brought the glass to his mouth. Before the rim touched his lips, he paused, the image of Nicholas Blake writhing on the floor surfacing in his mind. He carefully set the glass down on the mahogany side table. Gavrik, having witnessed Harry's reticence, smiled as he took a large gulp of his drink.

"If I wanted to poison you, Harry, would I do it in my own house?"

"Where would you poison me then?"

"Your place, of course," Gavrik countered with an upturned palm, the answer obvious to all.

It was an old game, sow the seeds of paranoia until the victim became paralyzed by a fear of their own making. Forgoing food and drink, frightened of every shadow, reduced to a shell of their former selves.

"Or perhaps one bullet to the chest," Gavrik continued. "At a deserted piece of land near a warehouse."

Harry did not blink. It stood to reason that Gavrik would know about Arkady Kachimov. Harry had lost Adam to the Russian, retribution was also part of the game, the balance must be maintained, just as Lavarov's life was taken for Ruth's. The two men looked at each other, caught in a never-ending stalemate. Two old warhorses, the only survivors of the battle, the ground salted around them, all that was beautiful destroyed. Harry could not argue against his punishment, it was only fitting that he do penance with this man, tied together for eternity, bound by loss. Gavrik spoke as if he read Harry's thoughts.

"It seems we are never to be free of each other."

"I was willing to break things off," Harry offered. "But you wanted me back."

The Russian picked a piece of lint from off of his trousers. "This is not how I envisioned my life."

"You seem to be coping."

'My wife is dead. My son is under arrest. I've been better."

Harry had not been in the room when the deed had occurred, had not been privy to the conversation the moments before Elena's death. To imagine killing her was one thing, but to carry it out was another. If the situation demanded it, would he have the nerve to murder the woman that he professed to love?

"You killed her," Harry observed, the statement tinged with disbelief and a hint of admiration.

"She betrayed us both, Harry."

"I wasn't married to her for thirty years."

"Small mercies, isn't that how you say it?" Gavrik's lips twitched in a grim half smile.

Harry sat back in his chair, the spectre of a dormant jealousy rising and then falling away. For years, he had laboured under the belief that he had given up the love of his life, abandoned his son and that by leaving them behind, he had handed a victory to Gavrik. He carried the ember of resentment against Jim Coaver for his meddling, straining his relationship with the man. In the end, Coaver had unknowingly saved Harry from a horrible fate. It was a shame that he would never be able to properly thank the man. He would say a prayer on his behalf, for all the good that would do.

"Still, the loss must be hard," Harry prompted, subtly turning the knife.

"You have my sympathies regarding Miss Evershed," Gavrik countered. "She was a remarkable woman."

"How would you know that?"

"She figured everything out, didn't she? Whereas you were a little too close to the situation."

The Russian was baiting him, but Harry had grown tired of the game. He needed to pull the conversation before they became ensnared in an endless web.

"I understand that you're still willing to share information."

"For a price."

"Security?" Harry asked. "Citizenship?

Gavrik shrugged. "Something along that line."

"The great Russian nationalist reduced to becoming a British subject. I can't believe it. Or are you trying to get a reprieve for your son? Because that-" Harry cut himself off, the cool demeanour that he had vowed to maintain dissolving. He reigned himself in. "Even if you get Sasha out of Britain, he stilled killed an FSB officer."

"I am willing to let justice prevail in whatever country my son finds himself in." Gavrik raised his hands in mock abeyance to the rule of law. "Though I would consider it a great favour if I could have a word with him."

"I don't know if that's possible." Harry had no desire to do a favour for the man.

"After that, I will wash my hands of him, you have my word."

Harry let out a derisive snort. "You know what, Ilya, we've already talked at length, sharing information. I don't know what more you can reveal. In fact, I never understood why you wanted to go so far back in the first place. What's done is done."

"You sent us a bogus list."

"List? What list?"

"She gave us names, prominent names. They were not traitors."

The lines on Harry's forehead deepened. What list was he talking about? Who would have given him names? One by one the lines eased, and irritation waned as a realisation dawned across his face. "Sugarhorse," he concluded. "You wanted to know the operatives for Sugarhorse."

"We had to be sure we had rooted them out."

Harry leant forward in his seat, a second domino falling, pushing against another, tiles cascading leading to only one other conclusion. "Tiresias," he whispered, "We didn't ferret out all your agents either, did we?"

Gavrik sat back a self-satisfied smirk on his face. "That is what I am willing to share."

"What's to stop us from throwing you in a cell and beating the information out of you?"

"Come now Harry, that is hardly your style. This is a land ruled by laws. You wouldn't be so barbaric."

"You know nothing about me." Now that the cards were on the table, Harry demanded to see them."So what is it that you really want?"

"A tier one investor visa would do nicely for starters."

"For that, you need two million pounds."

"I just need to access it."

"You want us to help you get your money out of Russia."

"In the world of finance, there are no borders."

Harry laced his fingers and tapped his thumbs together as he contemplated the bargain. "We do this at Thames House."

"No," Gavrik objected flatly, "We do it here." He finished off the last of the vodka and set the glass down on the table. "Because you're right, Harry, I know nothing about you."

A cloud passed over the sun, blocking the light into the windows, throwing the room into a dark gloom. Gavrik was right to be wary, Harry wasn't even certain if he could trust himself.

...

A criminal always returns to the scene of the crime. Harry had no idea what had possessed him to return to the ancient library, the place where it had all started. Perhaps it was the must of forgotten volumes, the winding metal staircase, the reverend hush, or the whisper of a turning page. Perhaps he was looking for atonement, expecting the ghost of Max Witt would come back and absolve him for all his crimes. In his heart he knew there would never be forgiveness, he was destined to carry all his sins. A presence drew near his side, the past in a different form.

"This is very old school of you, Harry. I'm surprised you didn't use a cut-out."

There was no mistaking the timbre of the voice. His Section Chief had been decommissioned years earlier, and Harry had warned that they would never speak again, yet Tom had answered Harry's first call. And now Harry had summoned him again, pulling Tom back into the fray. The Service never eases her embrace. Once a spy, always a spy.

"I wasn't sure who to trust."

"I'm flattered," Tom responded.

Nostalgia washed over Harry, an aching for a simpler time when Tom had helmed the team. Another sign of creeping age, seeing the past through a golden lens. There had never been a simpler time, indeed Harry had never known a life without a tapestry of complications.

Tom looked over Harry's shoulder. "It looks like you've picked up a tail."

"He's a bodyguard." Harry selected a book from the shelf, sensing Tom's surprise. "It's the Russians. They've got a Red Notice out on me."

"Should I be concerned?"

"Why?" Harry flipped through the pages of the book. 'You haven't done anything wrong, have you?" He sucked in his cheek, signalling that the line was said for the benefit of any ears that might be listening.

"Only worried for an old friend," said Tom.

Harry raised an eyebrow at the use of the word. Could his relationship with Tom be termed as a friendship? He knew that Tom had not solely taken the job against Lavarov out of loyalty to his former boss. Wetwork was roundly avoided, even by the most jaded of agents. Harry suspected that Tom harboured a fondness for Ruth, a bond that he had never been privy to, the depth of which had served as a catalyst for revenge.

"It was trying hard to snow as I walked in here," Harry continued conversationally. "It would be nice to get away from the cold."

"A little sun never hurt anyone."

Harry studied the book, running a finger along the spine. "They don't make books like this anymore. The workmanship, especially in the binding." He turned the book over, showing the title to Tom.

"Cromwell," Tom read aloud softly.

"A misunderstood man, in my opinion."

The pocket of Harry's overcoat vibrated and he reached in, pulling out his mobile. It was Towers.

"I've got to go." Replacing the book on the shelf, Harry let his fingers trail down the spine of the book, silently signalling its significance. This was how they would communicate from now on. Old school. For the first time in the conversation, he looked directly at Tom. "Put your faith in God, but keep your powder dry."

Tom gave Harry a complicit look, understanding Harry's meaning. It was a warning to be careful, Harry had no idea of the extent of the Russian reach. Neither of them was safe.

Leaving his former officer to exit by a different route, Harry circled down the winding staircase and headed back out into the cold.

...

The notes of a half-forgotten melody floated from a piano. Harry sipped his drink, trawling through the recesses of his mind for the tune's name. It was Gershwin, of that much he was certain. Something about love. Love found, love lost, love never to be regained. The hum of voices barely registered as he scanned the room, searching for an exit, wishing that he were anywhere else but at that function. He hated these political soirees at the best of times, and he most definitely was not at his best. The idea of swapping diplomatic pleasantries with a simpering dolt from some backwater riding was tantamount to torture, subtle enough to fly below the radar of the Geneva Convention. Towers had summoned him, billing the event as an opportunity to rehabilitate Harry's tarnished image as well as a possible arena for intelligence gathering. As much as he had balked at the idea, he could not summon the energy to fight back.

"Would it hurt you to have a conversation with someone?"

Harry started as Towers appeared at his elbow. "Sorry I forgot my note cards for mind-numbing small talk in my other jacket."

"I hope you're behaving yourself."

"Don't I always?"

Towers left the question unanswered. A waiter passed by bearing a tray of drinks and Towers took the opportunity to grab a glass of wine. Towers motioned to Harry's glass.

"What are you drinking?"

"Soda water."

A brief look of distaste flickered over Towers face but being the consummate politician, he quickly schooled it away. "There is someone I want to you to meet. He's on a Foreign Affairs Committee."

"Another politician," Harry murmured into his glass. "Just when I thought my evening couldn't get any more exciting."

Towers raised his hand catching the attention of a man across the room. Round and bespectacled, the parliamentarian made his way through the crowded room followed by an unknown woman.

"This is Everton Price, MP for Stockton Pontbray," Towers introduced the man. "Everton this is Harry Pearce. Head of Counterterrorism."

"Ah, the indomitable Sir Harry. Your reputation precedes you."

Harry took the man's outstretched hand, but the better part of his attention was directed at the woman standing beside the politician. Tailored suit, blonde hair artfully swept back, her glowing features stood out amongst the sallow-faced men around her. Noticing the direction of Harry's eyes, Price gestured to his companion.

"This is Ariadne Kolos. She's with PensaFarrow."

Harry took the woman's hand. The feminine fingers wrapped around his larger grip, her palm soft against his. The touch sent an unexpected wave of heat through him, catching him off guard. He chalked it up to the lack of intimacy in his life and the rarity of a woman's touch. No wedding ring. He shouldn't be noticing that sort of thing. There was no ulterior motive, only habit, he told himself.

"Lobbyist?" Harry inquired.

"Policy Analyst." The woman replied with a touch of ice to her correction.

At the word Analyst, Harry's grip relaxed and he let the woman's hand fall away. A sensation crept over him, that somehow he was being unfaithful to a woman with whom he had never officially had a relationship. His eyes wandered to the door, expecting her to walk in, a knowing smile on her lips having caught him out. He could feel her, standing behind him as she always did, her voice calmly asking what he was thinking. He shrugged his shoulder, chaffing at the guilt. It had only been a handshake. His eyes were drawn back to the woman, discreetly cataloguing details of her appearance. He pegged her at being in her forties, though the skillful application of cosmetics made it hard to pinpoint her exact age. Comfortable in her position, in that room, among so many men. He rocked on his heels as Towers and Price continued to talk.

"No, it's the Finance Committee," Price corrected Towers.

"How are the hearings going?"

"Bit of a slog. Ariadne has been very helpful in explaining the intricacies of foreign investment."

"Britain needs to reestablish its presence in the global market," Ariadne added with a smile, leaving Harry the impression that she had more brains than the other two men combined.

Towers and Price moved onto the subject of constituency offices leaving Ariadne with Harry for conversation.

"Security Services?" she asked, receiving a nod of confirmation from Harry. "I guess I can't ask you too much about your work." A teasing smile played upon her lips.

"It isn't that exciting," Harry admitted. "Once you get to my position, it's mainly paperwork and administration."

She nodded. They stood for a moment looking around the room, sipping their drinks.

"This is where you ask me about my work," she prompted.

"Ah yes, and what exactly is PensaFarrow?"

"We help individuals and companies leverage their investments by navigating regulatory bodies and outside jurisdictions."

Harry looked at her as if she had just spoken a foreign language. She smiled, taking pity on him. "Paperwork and administration mostly."

Harry hid a smile as he sipped his soda water. If he didn't know any better, he would say that the woman was flirting with him.

"Well, if we can't talk about our jobs," Ariadne continued, "and we should probably rule out religion, politics, there's not much left."

"There's always cricket."

She threw her head back in an infectious laugh, and Harry could not help but smile in return.

"Alright," she said, taking up the challenge. "How do you feel about women's teams being allowed into the Common Wealth Games."

"A good game of cricket is a good game no matter who is playing."

"That's very forward thinking of you."

"We can't go backwards, can we?"

The sentiment of his words rebounded back to him. No matter how much he ached for that simpler time, held in the gauzy suspension of his memory, he could never return to it. Ruth was gone, and he remained on this earth alone. He had no choice but to go forward. His silence elicited a curious look from Ariadne.

"I get the sense you don't much enjoy these sort of events," she observed.

"You would sense correctly."

"I know a place around the corner. It might be more your style."

Harry weighed the invitation. Ashes of a dormant fire stirred within his hollow depths, his body reacting independently of his conscience. He sifted through his memory trying to recollect the last time he had been with a woman. Whatever happened, it would be without his heart, that would always remain buried. But he was not dead. How far could he go with this woman? A drink, an invitation for a nightcap, the seductive call of wrinkled sheets.

"I'm sorry," he demurred. "I can't tonight."

"Some other time perhaps."

"Perhaps."

She reached into the pocket of her suit jacket and pulled out a business card. Holding it out to him, she gave him a sly smile, laden with meaning. His mind told him not to accept it, but his arm reached out of its own accord and took the card. She held on to it for a fraction of a second, enough time for him to give it a slight tug. The tiny piece of cardboard felt like fire in his hand. Better men than him had unstopped their ears to the siren call of temptation. He had already chalked up innumerable sins, the weight of one more would not break him. After all, as he had already said, there was no going back.


	4. Chapter 4

The slippers were a hideous brown and green plaid, woven from some unnatural fibre, but Ruth did not care, they kept her feet warm. Swimming in the one size too big casing, she tapped her toe on the floor, the strains of an ancient tune wafting from the speakers of her laptop. Baroque, she absently thought, Handel perhaps, though the name of the piece eluded her. The music helped to fill up the emptiness of the room, the space across the hall from her bedroom that was now her designated work area. She was flanked by two desktops, whirring as their systems trawled through data, isolating accounts, tracking transactions. A soft ping sounded and Ruth glanced over at the screen to her right. It was a transaction from the Seychelles. Ruth sighed with frustration. Another offshore account, another wall that she could not breach. The music on her computer switched to a different composer, and she absently hummed along, the strings of a harpsichord tickling the periphery of her concentration, her focus returning to Kaspgaz.

The company was a Matryoshka doll, one large shell hiding many smaller companies. For all intents and purposes, everything about Kaspgaz was above board. It's listing on the LSE, its board of directors, trading index. There was, of course, the usual accusations of polluting, bribery and illegal drilling, all areas ripe for illicit funds to change hands. As Ruth peeled back the layers, she found a Mobius strip of investors winding in and out of each other. It would take days, possibly weeks to unbend it all. A blessing in disguise, for it kept her mind busy, giving her cloistered life a sense of purpose. Her fingers flew over the keyboard as she created file folders with possible leads, flagging a number of British overseas territories. Another ping on the computer, this time from an account in Cyprus. Her hands stilled over the keys. It had been a long time since she had thought about Cyprus. Don't, her mind told her, don't go there. Too late, the thoughts had already formed. She was destined to lose everyone she had ever loved.

"Oh, Harry._"_

His name left her lips in a plaintive whisper, the notes of the music overriding the sound and diluting her sadness. Muted light filtered through the frosted panes, basking the room in a soft haze. She was in a dream. Any moment she would wake up and find herself sitting on the Grid. No, she would be at her desk outside of Towers' office; that was the last place she had sat. Pride had taken her from Harry's side and driven her to accept the Home Secretary's offer. Silly fool. A tear dropped from her eye and landed on the back of her hand, and she watched as it slowly rolled over the skin. There was nothing to be gained from crying. If her grief over George had taught her anything, it was that tears do not bring back the dead.

The door opened, and Ruth sat up, quickly wiping the drop from her hand. A barrel-chested man with closely shorn hair and bushy eyebrows entered. It was Eddie, one of the men assigned to her security detail, and her only other contact with humanity besides Anna. He walked toward her carrying a small tray. There was no need for her to venture to the floor below; they brought everything up to her.

"Got a bit of lunch for you, Miss Evershed."

"Thank you." She gave him a smile of gratitude, happy to hear a voice other than the ones in her head. "Can you stay for a bit?"

Eddie brought a chair around and sat down beside her. "I'll take a bit of a break if you will."

"What are you taking a break from?"

"Taking a break from sitting around down there," Eddie laughed at himself.

Ruth lifted up the top slice of bread and inspected the sandwich. Turkey, the same as the previous day. The diet of lean meat was meant to speed her recovery but at that moment she would sell her soul for a piece of chocolate or at the very least a biscuit.

"Do you think you could bring me something sweet the next time?"

"I'll put in a request." He leaned back absently rubbing his hand over the stubble on his head.

Ruth chewed on her sandwich, wondering if he was ex-military. The dark blue ink of a tattoo peeked out above the collar of his shirt and a permanent five o'clock shadow gave him a menacing air. It was a comfort to know that he was protecting her; it would be dangerous to be on that man's bad side.

"What's that you're listening to?" he asked.

"I think it's Vivaldi," she turned off the music knowing that it wasn't to everyone's taste.

"Maybe you should leave it on. I hear it makes you smarter. Look what it's done for you. Don't know how you can work three computers at a time." He gestured toward the terminals exposing fingers yellowed by nicotine stains.

"I just have to set up programs and parameters."

"It's all a mystery to me. More of a hands-on man myself." He crossed his arms, biceps bulging under the fabric of his shirt. "Frank is in later, we can play some cards after supper if you're up to it."

"I'd like that."

The two men had taken pity on her solitary life, arriving at her room the previous evening with a deck of cards.

"You're one of the better details I've worked." He leaned forward and gave her a little wink. "It's good to be working on the same side for once."

Ruth smiled, taking no offence to his familiarity. She tried to place his accent but found it hard to pinpoint the exact spot in Britain. Perhaps he had moved about in his youth. Before she could catalogue any other observations, the door opened. It was Mark Wilson.

"Oh, oh," Eddie raised his hands in mock surrender. "I've been caught. Better get back to work." He rose from his chair and gave a nod to Wilson as he passed by the man and exited the room.

Wilson closed the door and took up the chair that Eddie had vacated.

"He's not bothering you, is he?"

"Oh no, it's nice to have a bit of company. Don't worry, I'm still ploughing through things."

"Any progress?" Wilson asked.

"Pretty much as expected so far, money coming in from shell companies, going out to other shell companies. Bermuda, Caymans, Turks and Caicos. All the usual offshore hideaways."

"That's because he has something to hide."

"No doubt. A few transactions caught my eye, but I'm not a hacker, so when I come up against a firewall, I have to figure out another way around it."

"You're one of Five's best. I'm sure you can handle anything."

"I'm an analyst, not a technician. Usually, I work with a team. If you could find a person with some technical expertise…"

"That's not possible."

"Surely, there must be someone at Six."

"We're keeping this investigation under the radar."

Ruth sat back and reflected on his statement. "Are you telling me this isn't a sanctioned op?"

"There's a great deal of political sensitivity around all this, considering all that has happened. The fewer people that know about it the less likely there will be a leak."

Taking another bite of her sandwich, Ruth nodded her understanding, minimal as it was since she had no concept of the bigger picture. It wouldn't be the first time that she had investigated someone without knowing the details of the operation.

"I do have this though." Wilson reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a silver thumb drive. He handed it to Ruth.

Ruth took the device and turned it over in her hand. It looked vaguely familiar, similar to the type of data spike that Callum had favoured. Wilson nodded in the direction of her computer, and Ruth plugged in the stick. Within seconds, a window opened revealing the contents of the drive. Ruth stared at it in amazement.

"These are Gavrik's personal files from Kaspgaz. You could find out everything here."

"If you know what you're looking for. That's why we need your analysis."

She glanced down at the data spike. "How did you get this?"

"We got it as part of an Intel share from Five."

A memory surfaced of a stolen laptop, the files of grade A level assets. There was a woman who had worked in the London office of Kaspgaz. She had pilfered some files but in the end, Erin had burned her. Ruth tried to recall if they had ever gone through that information. No - events had snowballed, Tariq had died, and her focus had been directed on investigating Coaver. No one had ever disseminated the information on that drive. At what point had Five shared the information? It may have happened recently; after all, she had been out of commission for a while. Still, the information on that drive was incredibly valuable. Harry had always made it a practice not to share more information with Vauxhall than was strictly necessary. Unless he had gotten something in return. For a woman who prided herself on knowledge, being completely in the dark was particularly annoying. Her eyes returned to Wilson. The man was studying her, watching as the wheels of her mind turned. She cursed the malleable features of her face; she must remember to mask her thoughts.

"What were you thinking about?" Wilson asked.

"If I could get back to Thames House, I could take advantage of their technology."

"No," Wilson countered abruptly. He softened his denial with a consoling smile. "It's not safe for you."

"But if I'm not safe on the Grid..."

"If they got to Harry, the can get to you."

He was right; she had no rebuttal to his argument. The sandwich lost its flavour, the bread dry in her mouth. She placed it back on the plate.

"Was there…" She paused, surprised by how quickly the tears reappeared in her eyes. She blinked them away. "Was there a funeral? Is there any way-"

"I'm sorry, Ruth. We have to keep you hidden."

"It's just that…." Her eyes pleaded with him. "If you could tell me something, any detail about what happened."

"The best thing you can do now is to find out how Gavrik is using his money, and then we'll have our revenge for Harry."

Wilson moved his chair back to the corner of the room and let himself out, leaving Ruth to stare at the half-eaten sandwich on her plate. Gavrik's files sat open on her computer screen patiently waiting for her to resume her investigation. At any other point in her career, she would be doing cartwheels over such a treasure trove of information. Suspicions tickled at her brain, the fact that Wilson refused to bring anyone else in leaving her unsettled. They were all working for the same cause as Eddie had said, they were on the same side. If anything nefarious was at play, she would not be allowed access to the internet.

Turning back to her screen, she let her fingers hover over the keys as she debated her next move. Slowly, she pressed down on the letters, entering his name into the search bar. She held back knowing that the second she hit the enter key there would be irrefutable evidence of his death. It would be far pleasanter to remain in that little room, pretending that nothing had ever happened, that he was waiting for her somewhere. She could live on that little piece of illusion. The cursor blinked at the end of the name, waiting for her decision. She had never been one to labour under any sort of delusion, she thrived on information, ran on curiosity. She needed to know.

The doorknob clicked and Ruth started, quickly closing the search window, hoping that no one was tracking her history. Anna stood in the door frame.

"May I take a look at your sutures?"

The search bar abandoned, her questions unanswered, Ruth nodded and followed the nurse back to the bedroom.

The ceiling sloped at a slight angle, and Ruth lay staring up at it, her ribcage exposed as her dressing was changed. Anna rhymed off Ruth's vitals, but none of the numbers registered in her patient's brain. Think, think - her mind rotated on an endless conveyor belt. She could not conjure up any memories of the hospital. She must have been in one; Harry beside her bed, holding her hand, speaking to her. She needed to believe in that scenario but it was no use, her memory stubbornly refused to give up any such images, sounds, or sensations. Only a black void of emptiness. He was in her dreams, he must have been by her side.

"Have you been running? Or jumping?"

"What?" Ruth blinked, her attention returning to the present moment.

"Your incision is weeping a little."

"I haven't been doing anything besides sitting at a computer."

"Let me take your temperature."

Anna placed the thermometer under Ruth's tongue and waited patiently for the instrument to beep. "It is within normal range." She disposed of the plastic cover. "You are very quiet today."

"I was just thinking about a man I used to know."

Strange how when one's circle of acquaintances was diminished, barriers between the personal eroded. It had long been Ruth's practice to never confide in anyone, but Anna was a stranger, a clean slate, free of judgement.

"Maybe you will see him soon."

"I don't think so. They tell me he's dead."

"I am sorry," Anna's face held a look of concern. "Was he important to you?"

"Very. We were going to-" Ruth cut herself off, unsure exactly what they had agreed upon. Live together, leave the Service, spend the rest of their days with each other, words spoken without even so much as a declaration of love.

"You are not that old," Anna consoled in a perfunctory tone. "You will find someone else."

The young woman had obviously never suffered from a broken heart. Anna helped Ruth to sit up in the bed. She brushed against Ruth's dangling feet as she worked.

"Do you think you will be able to change the dressing by yourself?"

"Why?" Ruth was instantly on alert. "What's happening?"

"For when you leave."

"Leave? Have you heard something about me leaving?

"No, I…" Anna looked away, busying herself with the cap of the disinfectant bottle. "I mean, you won't be here forever."

"Yes, but how long do I have to keep this bandage on?"

"For a few more days at least."

"And you won't be coming back in that time?"

The young woman did not answer. Instead, she unfurled a blood pressure cuff and rolled up Ruth's sleeve. The scratch material tightened on Ruth's arm as the pump was inflated. When Anna leant down to read the dial, Ruth took advantage of her closeness and whispered into the woman's ear.

"Is there something you want to tell me?"

The young woman's eyes flew up to Ruth's. Her mouth opened and then closed.

"You've been very good to me," Ruth prodded maintaining her conspiratorial whisper. "No one will know if you say anything to me.'

Anna's eyes darted to the door and back. Ruth put her hand on top of the blood pressure cuff, trapping Anna's fingers, and forcing the young woman to look at her. Anna brought her head in close.

"They told me that I wouldn't be needed after today. I told them you weren't entirely healed. They said you were leaving."

"Where to?"

"I don't know." Anna shook her head.

Ruth nodded, absorbing the implications of the information. The vain hope surfaced that they were releasing her from the safe house, that she had given them enough information to take down Gavrik. But she had barely scratched the surface of Gavrik's financial dealings. A more disturbing reason crept into her thoughts. They were moving her because she was no longer safe. Someone had alerted the Russians of her location.

The air hissed as the blood pressure cuff was released.

"Your pressure is a little high," Anna noted. "You should try and relax."

Ruth's mouth drew in a thin line; yes, worrying about one's life does tend to elevate blood pressure.

"I will leave you a few things. Gauze and tweezers." Anna packed up the rest of her supplies in a little blue bag. "Remember - try not to exert yourself too much."

Ruth reached out and grabbed Anna's elbow. "Will I see you again?"

The young woman shook her head. "I'm sure you will find love again." Disengaging her arm from Ruth's grasp, Anna left the room.

If her mind was spinning before, it was now running on overdrive. Sliding off the bed, Ruth paced the room in a frantic circle, trying to order her thoughts. She made her way to the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face. Take a breath, calm down. There was no need to worry, Mark would have everything in hand. He had just forgotten to mention that she would be relocated. He hadn't wanted to alarm her. The tape around her bandage pulled at her skin and Ruth rubbed at the spot through the knitted wool of her top. It did nothing to ease the irritation, and she lifted her cardigan to have a better look at the dressing. Anna's handwriting was visible on the tape. Ruth twisted her head; it looked like the date; a record of when the dressing had been changed. Ruth squinted. Unable to read it properly, she stood on her tiptoes, using the bathroom mirror to better see the writing. The writing was still illegible. She slowly ripped the tape from her stomach. It wasn't that handwriting was messy, she couldn't read it because it was written in Cyrillic script. Funny, she was certain that the Polish language used the Western alphabet. She slowly let the fabric of her top drop back into place, her blood turning to ice. Anna wasn't Polish, she was Russian. Ruth held onto the lip of the sink, letting it bear her weight as the realisation sank in. Anna was the leak, she was the one who had revealed Ruth's location. That didn't make any sense. Surely, Six would have vetted her. But this was an unsanctioned op. Maybe it had been rushed, they hadn't used the proper protocols. If it was Anna, it would stand to reason that the Russians would know that Six would be moving her to another Safe House. She had to tell Eddie.

Her feet tripped over each other as she ran out of the bathroom. She took a moment to school herself, forcing her steps to stay calm. Bile rose in the back of her throat and her stomach churned. She opened the door and stepped out into the hallway, briskly walking to the top of the stairs. A few steps down, she narrowly avoided running into a table that stood on a tiny landing. A vase of fake flowers wobbled on the table, and she quickly reached out with her hand to steady it. Voices drifted up to her from the floor below. It was Eddie and an unknown man. She remained on the landing, instinct telling her to wait. The two men continued their conversation.

"What time is the flight?" Eddie asked.

"We have to be there for ten."

Ruth leaned back against the wall, merging her body into the wainscoting, straining to listen. What flight were they talking about?

"It's a private plane," the other man continued. "They won't be able to track it."

Who would track her? The Russians? Were they taking her out of the country? Her eyes darted around the space; she had absolutely no control over her life. A cloud of doubt descended on her. What if she wasn't even in England? She hadn't seen the outside world; she had no idea where she was. Leaving the support of the wall, she took a slow step back. Her thigh hit the table and the vase thudded onto the floor. Her head swung towards it in panic. Footsteps sounded on the stairs below. She crouched down and began picking up the fake flowers and a few broken pieces of the vase.

"Everything alright, Miss Evershed?"

Ruth stood up, the stiff stems of the flowers in her hand. Eddie waited on the tread a few steps down.

"Yes, I…I…I'm sorry I was just looking for some water. I accidentally walked into the table."

"I'll bring you some right away."

Unable to move, Ruth stared at the man. He tilted his head, eyes narrowing as he looked at her.

"Anything else I can do for you?"

Her stomach knotted, a bubble of fear rising. He was not there to protect her, he was her guard. All of his kind gestures, the marauding accent - part of a role easily played. Her first instinct was to run, but the man was twice her size, she would never make it past him.

"Is Mark around?" Her voice squeaked with the first thought that came to mind. "There's something I want to show him."

"I'll get him back here as soon as I can." Eddie gave her a mollifying smile. "Don't worry about that mess, I'll clean it up."

He walked up the few remaining steps and held out his hand to take the flowers. She looked down at the flowers, hardly worthy of a weapon. Her lips moving stiffly in a smile of thanks and she handed him the fake stems. Feet heavy with dread, she slowly climbed her way back up the stairs to her room.


	5. Chapter 5

Buried deep in the darker corners of his soul, hidden by the passage of time, lay secrets that Harry would never confess. He had on occasion wondered if these black deeds had stained his psyche, kept him guarded, unwilling to receive and return unconditional love, creating resistance to any form of vulnerability. He could count on his hand the number of times he had opened his heart. There had been a day in the not too distant past when he had stood by a fence in a churchyard and brought forth his heart, showing her the pain that ran through it and inviting her to join him. She had rebuffed him, called out his timing, left him with the tantalising notion that she would have accepted his offer at any other point in their checkered history. That was a lie; she was as closed as he. The only time she had let him in was in the waning breaths before her death. They were never meant to have a functioning relationship in the real world. It was a heavy weight to bear.

It was times like these when he sat in offices full of patient listening that he was tempted to confess it all. No priest would ever understand the darkness he inhabited, only someone who had studied the seedier side of human nature. The leather squeaked as Harry shifted in his chair. All he had to do was make it through the hour. Do not confess, do not unburden; he would feel better for a fleeting moment, but he would have given up his power to a stranger. His eyes roamed the room, absorbing the details of the space, anything to keep from looking at the woman sitting across from him. A nick in the corner of the dark wood desk, a well-tended fern on a side table, a bookcase stuffed with tomes on stress, fatigue and psychoanalysis. His eyes wandered to a raft of diplomas artfully hung on the wall proclaiming the accomplishments of their recipient, Dr Susan Fischer.

"We can sit here in silence if you like, Harry. It's your time."

A sound gurgled at the back of Harry's throat as he swallowed his retort. If they truly were to do as he liked, he would be back on the Grid. It was all part of the bereavement counselling foisted upon him by Towers. Although, he suspected that these sessions had little to do with Towers concern for his emotional wellbeing and more to do with ensuring that Harry did not suffer from a relapse before he had milked all the information that he could from Gavrik. The doctor eyed him, doing what she was trained to do, prodding her patient.

"But since we do have this time together why don't you make use of it.'

"We both know that I'm doing this so you can check off a box."

The doctor tilted her head. "There is a proven benefit to talking to someone."

Harry tapped the leather armrest. "What shall we talk about?"

"We can talk about whatever you like."

"That's the problem, isn't it? We can talk until the cows come home but it's not going to bring her back."

"But it can help you deal with the fact that she has left."

"What if I don't want to deal with it?"

Doctor Fischer gave him a look of infinite patience, suggesting Harry was not the first recalcitrant client with whom she had dealings.

"I'm sure you have had your share of officers who didn't cope well with grief. So you know problems arise when it manifests itself in other ways."

"I've seen people crack if that's what you mean?"

"Do you feel like your cracking, Harry?"

"I'm not drinking." He motioned to her writing pad. "You can tick that box."

"I'm not ticking any boxes. I just want to know how you're coping."

"What would it take for me to be relieved of my post?"

"Why do you ask that?"

"They tell me that they want me out but they keep pulling me back in."

"You mean your superiors?"

"Is there a box to tick that says unfit for duty, delusional?

"I can make recommendations."

"I hear her voice at night, I feel her beside me. I see her in the street. I swear there are moments when I can smell the fragrance that she wore. It is so real that I can't believe she is gone."

"Those are all natural things to experience."

"Are they? Because there are days when I don't know what's real."

"Do you think your delusional, Harry?"

"Isn't that for you to decide?"

"Do you see her in front of you when other people are around? Do you hear her voice over the phone? In settings where you know she shouldn't be?"

"Not yet."

"It's grief, Harry. It's a blow to your equilibrium and it's only natural that you feel off balance. Especially, when you've lost someone so close."

"We-" Harry stopped, pulling himself back from the edge of revelation. All that he had left were the threads of their tangled relationship, he would not share that with anyone. "It's the loss of potential. It was so close to almost being and then it was ripped away. I should have been the one to die.'

"Guilt can be a heavy burden."

'Guilt can sometimes look like love." Or so he had told Ruth in a stolen moment of almost intimacy in an underground carpark. His mind teemed with the words that he should have spoken in that moment instead of being fixated on Coaver and the laptop. "What sort of man lets the woman that he loves die."

"It depends on the circumstances."

She had not intentionally sacrificed herself. She had only meant to talk Sasha down. An insurmountable feat considering that the boy had just witnessed his father murdering his mother. Harry's eyes alighted on the fern, one brown leaf standing out amongst the green. It would be wise to trim it off before the rot spread to the rest of the plant. He saw Gavrik plucking away Elena. Was Gavrik's motive for killing Elena really anger at a decades-old betrayal, or had he killed her for a more recent transgression. Had he cut off the leaf to save the plant?

"What sort of man kills the woman he loves?" He asked the question aloud, said more to himself than the doctor.

A soft buzzer sounded.

"We're almost out of time Harry, but we can certainly go longer if you want."

"No." He clamped his lips tight, rising from the chair. He would not unburden his soul by the clock. He had lost his only confidant, he would cope on his own.

.

The numbers on his watch told him he was running late. He longed for the day when he could saunter along, reaching his destination at whatever time he happened to arrive, instead of constantly feeling one step behind the clock. The team was already waiting for him inside the briefing room. He strode to his place, hoping that the air of mental anguish from the past hour did not trail behind him for all to see. Taking his seat, he saw no curious glances and surmised that the team had no idea where he had spent his morning.

"Right now," Harry addressed the room at large. "Where do things stand?".

"We're looking into Gavrik's claim about residual Tiresias agents." Erin offered. "Unfortunately, everything around that subject is still highly classified."

Harry leaned an elbow on his armrest and rubbed his fingers along his chin. "I can certainly give you any protocols that you might need. But I'm not sure if that's where we should be looking.'

"What do you mean?" Callum asked. "What could be more important than rooting out possible Russian assets waiting to be activated?"

"I know, it's a tempting fruit, isn't it?" Harry tapped a finger on his bottom lip. "And if you were going to lead me down the garden path, wouldn't you put something like that in front of me."

"So you're saying it's a distraction."

"You lot are so young, the Berlin Wall isn't even a faint memory to you. But I was there, I know how the Russians operate. Nothing is ever what it seems with them. Their default programming is disinformation. Gavrik will always be KGB.'

"You mean, FSB," Callum corrected, half-jokingly.

"No," Harry countered. They could dress it up with whatever name they chose, but their officers would never change. "Once KGB, always KGB."

"With all due respect, Harry," Dimitri piped in. "We're dealing with a more sophisticated outfit these days."

"Harry's right," Erin came to her boss' defence. "They could be sending us on a wild goose chase and we would never find everyone. The Russians were far more adept at planting illegals in the west then we were at putting people in their yard."

"They don't even need to hide anymore," Dmitri continued with his point. "The SVR have no qualms about assassinating Russian nationals on foreign soil and the GRU is outpacing us technologically."

"Speak for yourself," Callum quipped.

"There is one possible window into Gavrik's thinking," Erin suggested. "Sasha."

Harry drew a sharp breath through his teeth, the sound of the boy's name bringing forth a stew of hatred that threatened to overtake him. It was a line of enquiry that he could not trust himself to discuss. Sidestepping Erin's suggestion, he changed the subject. "Have you looked into Everton Price?"

"Yes, the upstanding member from Stockton Pontbray." Callum opened a file. "Born in the area. Went to Eton, on to Cambridge, father a doctor, mother stayed at home. Pretty standard upper-class British upbringing."

Harry mulled over the information. Ruth would have said it sounded a bit too typical. She would have dug deeper, tapped a contact, made an inference. Callum wasn't an analyst. He was one of the new breed of hybrid officers; one foot in the field, the other in tech.

"Dig a little deeper."

"Anything, in particular, I'm looking for?"

"It's just reasoned intuition."

"So it's a hunch."

"Do you have a problem with that?"

"No, sir."

"And Ariadne Kolos?" Harry would not let Callum off the hook so easily.

"Policy Analyst for PensaFarrow." Callum took a deep breath. "Greek by birth, emigrated here with her parents when she was three. Oxford, rose through the ranks. Divorced from a solicitor. Plays tennis apparently. Is that deep enough for you?"

"So nothing untoward."

"Not that I can see."

Giving Callum the task to investigate Ariadne Kolos had been an afterthought. Her attendance at the function last night alongside Price made her a person of interest. Harry wore paranoia like a well-worn shirt, reluctant to part with it. As much as he wanted to believe that a woman of Ariadne's beauty would be interested in him, Harry had his misgivings. Better to have his doubts eased by Callum. And it would save Harry the trouble of having to fill out an S24. Not that he harboured any expectation that a relationship would blossom. Unless an opportunity presented itself.

Harry dismissed the team and they filtered out of the room. Erin remained at the table.

"I can set up a meeting this afternoon. I'll handle it if you'd rather not."

She was tenacious, Harry would give her that. The idea of interviewing Sasha filled him with a dread more sour than that of his meeting with Gavrik. He pursed his lips. Turn around and face the nightmare.

"No, I'll do it. But we keep it black."

"I'm coming with you," Erin stated as she collected up her papers.

"You think I'm too close." It wasn't a question, Harry knew the answer.

Erin looked at him as she tapped her papers on the table, her silence speaking volumes. He had commanded a number of Section Chiefs, the good ones knew his mind. She would keep him in line. Not as hardnosed as Ros, but certainly as resolute. She had managed to keep the department functioning in his absence, skeletal as it was; a situation that he needed to rectify.

"Ask HR to send up some candidates for technical officers." Harry closed his eyes and rubbed his temple. "And an Analyst."

Erin nodded in acknowledgement. She smoothed her hands across the top of her papers. "I've got a date set for the memorial."

Harry inhaled a low breath and cleared his throat. "Is someone reading a poem?"

"No, but it can be arranged."

"I would like that."

Not pressing the subject any further, Erin left him alone with his thoughts. The walls of the room grew close around him, a dark shadow creeping over his mind. He needed air.

.

The wind whipped around him as he stood on the rooftop, his hands braced against the rail, face turned toward the elements. He did not feel the stinging cold, in fact, he welcomed it, pricking at his skin, reminding him that he was alive, though he feared it was a lost cause. The city - his city - lay below, towers rising in the distance. Houses and shops, the masses trundling along, unaware of those who protected them. When his tenure was concluded, he would retire deeper into the shadows. He needed no pomp and circumstance, no expressions of gratitude, only a chance to find peace. He closed his eyes. The allure of leaving the Service was losing its sheen. What would he do? With whom would he share the unstructured hours of his newfound freedom? The session with the psychologist had unnerved him, caused the walls of his compartmentalisation to bleed together. He needed to get out of his head and join the company of man. He would dine at the club, insert himself back into society. The surfeit of male members would ensure that the conversation stayed on track, no wandering into the messy quagmire of emotion. He leant his elbows on the rail, resting his forehead in his hands. There was only one person he wanted to talk to.

A bang sounded behind him and he lifted his head. A hand touched his elbow, a voice spoke near his ear.

"_Oh, Harry."_

He turned around, expectation brimming. "Yes."

There was no one. The metal door creaked as it swung on its hinges, the wind having blown it open. He must not have closed it properly when he had stepped onto the roof. His hand moved to the spot on his arm where he had felt the touch. It burned with a familiar sensation. It was her. She had come to him. As she had done so many times. Found him on the roof, read his mind, talked him back round to himself. But he was alone. The wind moaned a mournful cry, caught in the vortex of the door and the stairwell. He squeezed his eyes tight.

"Why did you leave me?"

He whispered the words, the wind sweeping them up and carrying them across the city. He ran his fingers through his hair. He was going mad. Soon she would be scratching at his window panes crying to be let in. He shouldn't have gone cold turkey, better to ease off the drink slowly. He would allow himself an indulgence that evening, take the edge off of his overactive imagination. A night at the Travellers with a glass of port and a fine cigar. He could not stand on the rooftop forever, hoping to conjure her up, he had to move among the living. He walked over to the door closing it behind him as he stepped into the warmth of the stairwell. His phone vibrated in his overcoat pocket. It was an unfamiliar number. He opened the call as he took a step down.

"Pearce," he answered in his usual crisp tone.

"Hello, Harry, it's Ariadne."

Harry stopped on the step, momentarily at a loss for words. Her voice came through the phone like a lifeline, a connection to a woman in the real world.

"Did I catch you at a bad time?" she asked.

"No, no," he hastily assured her, regretting his curt greeting. "I'm between meetings."

"I hope you don't think this too forward of me."

"I'm a forward-thinking man."

She gave out a small laugh. "Are you free for dinner this evening?"

"I had plans but they're not concrete."

"Don't go rearranging things on my account."

Harry placed his hand against the wall, using the solid concrete for support, searching for the courage to continue along in the same vein. "I'd like to have dinner with you."

"I'm glad to hear that."

"It hasn't been the best of days, it would be good to see you."

"How about the place a mentioned before, around the corner from where the reception was. I can send you the details."

"Alright."

"I'll see you then."

Harry rang off, his hand still pressed against the wall. Curious, that she had managed to find his number. He had asked for an opportunity, and it had come. For years he had denied his carnal cravings, living on the fumes of Ruth's proximity, hoping that one day she would lower her defences and let him in. Perhaps moving forward meant taking a step into another's arms. It was certainly a more tantalising solution compared to sitting around and talking platitudes with a psychologist.

Metal crashed against the concrete and Harry jumped, his thoughts cut short. At the top of the stairs, the exterior door had blown open. A burst of wind funnelled down the stairs, nipping at Harry. He hurried up the steps and pulled the door close, fighting against the force of the wind. Finally, he shut it, checking to make certain that the latch had engaged. His heart pounded in his chest. It couldn't be her, she was not calling to him in the wind. He pulled the handle on the door once more ensuring that it was closed. He started down the steps and then turned to look at the door. No, he shook his head dismissing the thought, it wasn't possible. He continued on his way.

.

The room though free from ornamentation held nothing of the institutional trappings of a prison. The walls were a calming green, four chairs of blonde wood stood around a dark table. A curtain on the window partially obscured the wire mesh that covered the panes. Arms crossed, sitting in one of the unforgiving chairs, Harry ground his teeth with impatient waiting. Beside him, Erin checked the messages on her phone. With each passing moment, Harry's irritation grew. It was prudent that Erin had accompanied him, her presence was a buffer.

The door opened and a guard escorted the boy into the room. To Harry's disappointment, Sasha was not in shackles. Neither was he dressed in prison clothes. The young man walked with a cane, favouring his left leg, the residual effect of Dmitri's bullet. The guard pulled out the chair, and Sasha leant the cane against the table, grimacing as he took his seat. The guard gave Harry a look and held up five fingers. Five minutes, the allotted time they had been granted. The guard closed the door as he left the room. There were no witnesses behind closed doors. Sasha slouched in his chair, the scowl of a surly teenager dominating his face. Harry sucked in his cheek. He had to stop thinking of Sasha as a boy or a teenager. He was a man, an FSB officer who had committed murder.

"Shouldn't my solicitor be here?" Sasha asked.

"This meeting never happened," Harry countered. "Was there a meeting, Ms Watt?

"I don't remember one."

"How very Russian of you." Sasha leaned back and crossed his arms. "What do you want?"

"Your father wants to meet with you," Harry said, using Gavrik's message as a pretext to start the conversation.

Sasha let out a huff, "I don't want to see him."

"He could be your last chance."

"He killed my mother."

"A mother who would have sacrificed you." Harry took small solace in the fact that no matter how fraught his relationship was with Graham, his family had not yet reached the level of mythical dysfunction that the Russians had achieved.

"We can help you," Erin offered.

"Why would you help me?"

"Your father is cooperating with us," she added.

"He is a traitor."

"Yes," Harry latched onto Sasha's sentiment. "And a liar. We want to know what he is really up to."

"How would I know?"

"Surely, as part of his security detail, you must have heard things, witnessed meetings, transactions."

The young man regarded Harry with eyes that had seen too much duplicity to take the man at his word. "I want out of here."

"You're a flight risk," Erin countered.

Sasha banged his hand on the table and leaned across, glowering at Erin. "Why isn't my father in here? He is a murderer."

The muscle in Harry's jaw flexed as he tempered down his rising fury, his hands clawing with the instinct to grab Sasha by the throat and force every secret out of him. The last thing he wanted was for Sasha to walk free. If there was any justice in the world, he would spend the rest of his life inhabiting one of the circles of hell where Harry now resided. But reason told him that no matter what punishment Sasha performed it would not bring back Ruth. The best revenge would be to use him for information. Harry pulled the words from his throat, scratching his heart, betraying her memory.

"If you cooperate, you can have the same deal as your father."

Sasha stared at Harry with eyes of stone. So young and so unfeeling.

"You use people, Harry Pearce. You would get the information from me and then toss me away like you did my mother."

There was a truth to that statement that Harry could not refute.

"At this point, you've got no one else."

"I won't betray my country."

"You think they care about you?" Harry crooked his elbow on the table, squinting at the young man. "You killed an FSB officer, your Mother was part of an international terrorist plot, and your father has been branded a traitor. You're a liability to them. They are going to come for you, but it won't be to save you."

Sasha crossed his arms tighter, refusing to look at Harry. With no response in the offering, Harry continued.

"And if that doesn't leave you sleepless, you killed an MI5 officer. Your 'protection' is at my discretion." Harry stood up, rising to his full height, marshalling the command of all of his years of experience, the chess master's mind that the young man could never hope to outmanoeuvre. Without looking at Erin, Harry walked toward the door. As he reached for the handle, Sasha's voice stopped him.

"I didn't mean to kill her. It was you that I wanted dead."

Harry's grip tightened on the handle. Death did not always mean a cessation of the physical, it was when the heart stopped. There was no life without her. The binding of his self-control snapped and he turned, walking back to the table with two quick strides. He picked up the cane, relishing the look of fear in Sasha's eyes. He cracked the wood across the table, causing Erin to jump. She sat poised, ready to intervene if necessary. Harry brought his face down close to the young man.

"Well, you succeeded," Harry hissed. "But remember, the dead have nothing to lose." His lips curled in a sneer as he slowly ripped a page from the Russian playbook. "Enjoy your supper, if you can."

He turned and walked out the door, leaving Sasha to stew on his fate. With a determined step, he made his way down the hall, giving the guard a curt nod as he passed. Cricking his neck, he straightened the knot in his tie and adjusted the cuff of his jacket. If they only thing he had accomplished that day was to make Sasha's life a living hell of paranoia, just as Gavrik had attempted to do at their meeting, then Harry would not call it a total loss. He deserved a drink.


	6. Chapter 6

Even the sharpest of minds can be dulled by indecision. Ruth stood at the window, her forehead leaning against the frosted glass, head burning with questions. Ragged puffs of air escaped her mouth, the pane fogging over, the view to the outside world as obscure as her understanding of the situation. The only provable facts were that Anna was Russian and that Ruth was being moved to a different location. It was only instinct that warned her about Eddie and she had no conclusive proof either way if Mark Wilson was indeed affiliated with Six. In her mind, she moved the two men into the 'as yet to be confirmed column'. At this point, the only protection she possessed was information. Somehow she needed to assemble it in one place and hide it. Pushing away from the window, she crossed over to her laptop. Having combed through the USB stick, she knew there were extraneous files that could be deleted to make room for the more pertinent information she had gathered. The act of sorting through the data gave her teeming mind an activity to focus on, though what she would do with the information she had no idea. She moved folder after folder from her laptop over to the external drive. The memory stick glowed with activity, but the transfer bar filled up with the slowness of a retreating glacier. She had made a rooky mistake. It was always better to transfer one file at a time. She glared at the computer screen, berating herself and the deficiencies of technology. Her finger tapped her mouse with impatience, wondering if there was anything else she could do while she waited. The computers IP address was masked even to her; she could not determine her exact location. Could she get a message out to the Grid? Her finger halted its tapping. There was still one unresolved question. Her hands move to the keyboard. She typed his name into the search bar. There was no hesitation this time, she quickly clicked the enter key. Instantly, the screen populated with Harry's name. Her heart rate increased and her breath came in staccato bursts, bracing for the shock of seeing his death in print. She scrolled down the page. The first article was an oblique reference to the Albany tribunal. Sketchy on facts, it alluded to an investigation of a top MI5 officer and a national secret. As she looked through the posts, it soon became apparent that the other hits were only quotes from various journals regarding intelligence matters. She stopped to calm her breath, wanting to believe but still doubting. The death of a man of Harry's stature would merit some sort of notice, an obituary, a small article, yet there was nothing. Why would Wilson tell her such an egregious lie? She rubbed her forehead, trying to make sense of everything.

Without warning, the door opened, and Ruth hastily closed the search window. Mark Wilson entered with the air of a man on a mission. He greeted her with a solicitous smile.

"Eddie tells me you wanted to see me. Is everything all right?"

Ruth studied the man, still trying to discern his intent and figure out what side he was playing on. She scanned her mind, cursing herself for not coming up with any sort of script for when he arrived, more intent on protecting information. She needed to walk a thin line, cleave right down the middle of voicing concern but not revealing her suspicions. "Yes, its…." She grabbed at the first words that appeared. "I'm not sure what's going on."

"What do you mean?"

"I think something might be up with Anna." Sufficiently vague, yet not impugning Eddie.

"Yes, we have concerns about her too. Someone dropped the ball when vetting her. She might have compromised us. That's why we're moving you."

It was a perfectly plausible explanation, and Ruth licked her lips, letting herself believe that Anna was the only aberration because the thought of a much larger conspiracy was just too frightening to contemplate. "Why didn't you tell me earlier that you were moving me?"

"We had to work out the details. I didn't want to worry you."

"Where am I going?"

"Everything is taken care of, it's all under control."

Ruth tightened her mouth into a line, suppressing the instinct to demand the whereabouts of her destination. Wilson's eyes narrowed as he studied her. She let her mouth relax, the muscles of her face becoming lose. Don't let him see what you are thinking. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him if he had lied to her about Harry. She wanted to press him on that point, make him admit whether Harry was alive or not, but that would be showing her hand. Better to pretend that she still believed in him.

"When am I leaving?"

"In a few minutes. We've had to move things up. Then it will just be a few hours by plane."

Ruth blinked. A few hours by plane would take her far beyond British soil. That is if they were harbouring her in the UK. The thought must have flickered in her eyes, the expression on Wilson's face changing as he realised he may have tipped his hat. Hoping to regain his trust, Ruth let her shoulders relax, and tilted her head with a soft smile, making her demeanour as submissive as possible.

"I'll just get my stuff together," she replied, hoping that her pliant manner would ease his concerns that she might be suspicious.

Her eyes flickered down to the USB stick. The drive had stopped flashing. She prayed that it signalled that the data transfer was complete. Mark followed the direction of her gaze. She deflected his attention by tapping her laptop.

"What about all this equipment?"

"We'll look after that too."

"Alright," she agreed. "Let me close down my work."

She looked at him, a smile on her lips, perspiration pooling in her armpits as she silently prayed that he would not ask her for the USB stick.

"Okay," he nodded, reluctantly acquiescing. "But be ready to leave in twenty minutes."

Wilson closed the door and Ruth counted to ten before taking the chance of logging back onto her laptop. There must be a way to get a message out to the world. She opened up her browser screen. It was blank. She refreshed the page and opened it again only to be met with the words – no internet connection.

"No, no, no," she whispered frantically.

She tried the desktop machine. No connection. She tried the other computer with the same result. Shit, they had cut her internet. She should have done something earlier. She yanked the USB drive from its port and squeezed it in her hand. She needed to hide it. Her eyes scoured the room searching for a crevice. It would be madness to leave behind such a valuable cache of information in hopes that the team might discover it. She rouched up the bottom of her jumper and carefully peeled back the tape of her dressing. Hands shaking, she slid the drive into the opening in the gauze, the plastic device cold against her skin. She flattened everything back down as she contemplated what to do next.

She opened the door to the computer room and looked out into the hall. There was no guard posted directly outside her door. Midway across the hall, she stopped, curiosity taking her to the top of the stairs. With the lightness of a cat, she stepped on one tread and then the next. The voices below filtered up to her, Wilson and Eddie joined by the third unknown man.

"We all knew she was going to figure it out sooner or later. She's a smart woman."

"I caught her coming down the stairs earlier." It was Eddie. "That's why I called you."

"You made a good call," said Wilson. We'll move her before it's too late."

The conversation confirmed in worst fears. In any sort of abduction scenario the more times a hostage was moved, the fainter the trail of discovery. She couldn't let herself be moved to another location. She slowly eased her foot off the tread and walked back up the stairs, careful not to bump into anything and give herself away. She ran on her tiptoes to her bedroom. Closing the door, her hands searched frantically for a lock. There was none. She moved to the ladder back chair, the brief thought flashing through her mind that she could break the window and climb out. That would be the plan of last resort, for she suspected the panes were made of tempered glass. Instead, she hooked the back of the chair underneath the door handle. Fueled by desperation, she fled to the bathroom. That door was also frustratingly free of locks. Rings clattered against the metal rod as she moved the shower curtain. Idiot. She couldn't hide in the shower. She looked frantically around the bathroom, her initial exploration of the room on her first day coming back to her. She opened the cupboard by the sink.

Pulling out the towels, she exposed the tiny door. Her fingers pressed against the wood panel. Solid. She pushed a bit harder. It didn't budge. Peering closer, she saw that it was held in place by painted over screws. A coin would do the trick. She ran back into her bedroom, wondering what she could use. Her eyes landed on the supplies that Anna had left her – gauze and a pair of tweezers. She grabbed the tweezers and hurried back into the bathroom. Using the tips of the tweezers, she scraped the paint away and then inserted the flat edges into the slot of a screw head. The tweezers slipped as the screw refused to budge. After a few more unsuccessful attempts, the screw finally turned. She quickly took it out and then set to work on the rest. Perspiration beaded on her brow as she tugged at the wood panel but it still refused to budge. Using the tweezers, she scored around the outside of the door, peeling the paint away from the wall. Swearing silently, she ignored the flecks of paint that had become embedded beneath her fingernails and scratched harder. With one last tug, the panel finally popped off. A burst of cold air rushed at her. She peered inside. Without the aid of a torch, she could only see darkness. Sitting back on her haunches, she calculated whether or not she could fit through the space. She might have lost a bit of weight but there was still her shoulders and her hips to squeeze through the opening. At that point, she had no choice.

On her hands and knees, she reached out into the darkness. There was nothing. Lying on her good side, she contorted her shoulders and slowly wriggled the top of her torso through the opening. Her eyes strained in the darkness, the smell of dank must overpowering her. In the dimness, she could barely discern slats of light coming through an overhead vent. Palms against the frame, she used it as leverage to pull herself further into the unknown space. Her side accidentally hit the edge of the opening. Eyes closed against the pain, her mouth formed a silent circle as she panted a few steadying breaths. With greater care she inched forward, her hip bones scraping against the tiny frame, pulling the rest of her body through. She quickly pulled her feet through and sat on the other side, panting, taking a moment to get her bearings. Within seconds, she realised that she had crawled into the unfinished mirror of her room. A rustling sounded in the corner as an unknown animal scampered through the wall. She conjured a floorplan in her head, wondering if she were in an attached house or still in the same building. She reached back through the tiny hole, stretching her arm to find the panel. Pulling it upright, she set it back in place, hoping that it would buy her some time. Planks crisscrossed the ceiling beams, and she carefully stood on one. There must be some sort of staircase like the one on her side. Lest she fall through the ceiling, she carefully tiptoed across one of the planks. Her foot stubbed against a raised piece of wood. Getting down on her knees, she felt a square frame and surmised it was some sort of access hatch. With trembling fingers, she pried at the wood and lifted the door from its frame. Light shone through and below her lay a carpeted hallway. It was a drop of her height and then some. She stared down at the opening, filled with the dread that she might have gone in a circle, only to land in the same house where she had started. There was no time for debate; she was too far gone, returning were as tedious as going o'er. Her eyes searched the darkness for a ladder or a rope, but there was none to be found. She sat down on the edge of the opening, her legs dangling beneath her as she gathered the courage to continue. Placing her hands on either side of the hatch, she slid off the edge, using her elbows to control her descent. A twinge shot through her side. Too late she was already halfway down, she didn't have the strength to pull herself back up. She eased herself lower, the unhealed muscles in her side stretching painfully. Gritting her teeth, she stretched out her toes, searching for the floor. There was no way to get around it, she would have to let go and drop the remaining distance. Holding her breath, she counted to three and then let go. Her feet hit the floor with a thud, her body crumpling over on itself. Fire ripped through her side and she stifled a cry, her hands moving to protect her wound. She lay on the floor, tears squeezing through her shut eyes, certain that she had ripped her stitches. It didn't matter she had to keep going. Using the handle of a door, she slowly managed to get on to her feet. A whimper came from the adjoining room. She leaned against the door frame trying to figure out the source of the sound. Within seconds, it grew to a full-throated cry. It was a baby. The incongruity of the sound rooted her to the spot. Footsteps came running up the stairs. Ruth looked around wildly, searching for a place to hide, taking a step only to be stopped by the dagger in her side. She fell back against the door frame. A young woman appeared at the far end of the hall. To Ruth's relief, the woman did not scream but stared at her in horror. Ruth raised one hand, keeping the other on her side.

"Please don't be afraid. I'm so sorry, I just-" Ruth pointed up to the ceiling. The woman followed the direction of Ruth's finger, trying to make sense of the situation. The infant was in full wailing mode. "You should get the baby."

Keeping one eye on the intruder, the woman sidled past Ruth and entered the baby's room. The smell of lotion and talc wafted to Ruth's nose, along with the cloistered warmth of infant sleep. Hypnotised by the domesticity of the scene, Ruth watched as the woman picked up her baby, cooing softly to the child as she rocked it. A mobile spun lazily over the crib, the last notes of a lullaby playing from it. The need for flight was temporarily suspended as a wave of stinging jealousy washed over Ruth. The pang in her side was replaced by an ache in her heart. The woman stood holding her baby.

"What do you want?" she asked. "Money?

"You speak English," Ruth observed, gushing with relief over the familiar accent.

The woman stared at Ruth as if she were an alien, the question leading her to conclude that Ruth presented no immediate danger.

"How did you get in my attic?"

"I'm from next door." Deciding that the truth would be too outlandish to believe, she decided to go for sympathy. "I'm trying to get away from my husband."

Instantly, the woman's demeanour changed from suspicion to concern. She motioned to Ruth's side.

"Are you alright? Did he hurt you?"

"Yes," Ruth took advantage of the woman's sympathy. "And if he finds me he'll do it again."

"Do you want to call the police?"

Ruth opened her mouth to reply yes but stopped. Wilson and Eddie would figure out where she was long before the police arrived. "No, I have friends I can go to. I'll be safe with them."

"What can I do?

Ruth winced. "Do you have any paracetamol?

"Yes, I'll get you some."

The woman ran into a bathroom. Cradling the baby on her hip, she rifled through a medicine cabinet. She brought back a bottle of pills and a glass of water. Not having a free hand she handed the bottle to Ruth. After unscrewing the top, Ruth dispensed two pills, then shook out two more for good measure. She held out her hand for the glass. The water tasted slightly of toothpaste. The baby, a boy judging by its blue sleeper, stared at Ruth as she drank the water. He gurgled happily in nonsensical gibberish and clapped. Ruth couldn't help but smile. The innocence of youth. The woman took the glass from Ruth's hand.

"Are you sure we shouldn't call the police."

"I need to get out of here. I don't want to get you involved." Ruth glanced at the opening in the attic. "You'd better close that."

The woman nodded. "Can I call you a taxi?"

"No," Ruth declined. "Is there a back way out of here?"

"Through the kitchen. Are you okay to walk?"

Ruth nodded, the pills coming into effect, taking the edge off her pain. They headed down the stairs, the young woman walking at a faster pace than Ruth could muster. At the bottom of the steps, the young woman stopped, struck by an idea.

"I have an old coat you can have."

As the woman rummaged through the closet, Ruth edged further down the hall away from the front door. A squeak came from beneath her foot, and she froze with panic until she realised she had stepped on a plastic dinosaur. The living area was overrun with toys, laundered baby clothes sitting in a pile, hallmarks of family life that she would never experience. How lovely it would be to live in that woman's shoes for one day. Growing tired of watching its mother search for a coat, the baby fussed, wanting to be let down. Called by some dormant instinct, Ruth returned to the mother.

"May I hold him for you?"

The woman turned and entertained the offer, her initial fear of Ruth having entirely dissipated. "Yeah, that might make things easier."

Ruth took the child and she closed her eyes, lost in the sweet smell of its skin. In her arms, she held everything she had given up, not necessarily by calculated choice, but more by the vagaries of circumstance and the cruel hand of fate. She had tasted motherhood with Nico, but not this first blush, the nascent stage of another human being. It was not all lost, the time had not completely run out on her biological clock, she could still very well have a child. All the dreams she had harboured in her younger years, working alongside Harry, surfaced in her memory, opportunities she had been too fearful to seize. A different clock ticked for her now. The twenty minutes indicated by Wilson for her departure must have elapsed.

"I have to get going."

The woman was searching through her purse. She pulled out a wad of notes and placed them on the table. She handed over a grey trench coat to Ruth. There was a moment of juggling as she exchanged it for the baby. With a hint of reluctance, Ruth gave up the child. The woman handed her the bills, overpowering Ruth's initial resistance.

"To get where ever you're going."

"Thank you." Ruth stuffed the money in her pocket, not stopping to count it.

Sensing the urgency of time, the woman led Ruth on to the kitchen. Dishes piled in the sink, bottles on a rack, food splatter on a highchair, Ruth gazed longingly at all the trappings of motherhood. The woman opened the back door. Ruth paused.

"Don't forget to put the door back on the attic." Ruth looked at the smiling baby. "And maybe you should call the police – for your own safety."

The woman nodded. "Good luck."

Ruth stepped out of the house and into a fenced in garden. Petrol fumes, unemptied bins and the indefinable smell of the inner city hit her nostrils. It must be London. Unhooking the latch, she opened the gate onto a tiny alley. She turned around to have one last look at the woman and child. They stood, peering at her through the window in the kitchen door. She prayed they would not suffer any retribution for her escape. With a quick wave of thanks, she stepped through the gate. It clattered shut behind her, closing the door on any residual thoughts of a normal life, a home, a child, a mortgage. She had stepped back into her other life. Deciding not to cross behind the house that she had escaped, Ruth took the opposite direction down the alley. The fresh air helped to clear her mind as she walked along. She should have phoned someone else from the house, or at the very least ascertained her specific location. The voices of men shouting carried over the fence and down the alley. Not daring to look back, she picked up her pace. One slipper fell off, causing her to lose valuable time as she hobbled back to retrieve it. She should have asked for a decent pair of shoes.

The alley spilt out onto a busy thoroughfare. Ruth searched for a street sign but found none. Posters plastered on a boarded-up shop advertising underground bands confirmed that she was in London, though a pawnshop and an arcade window promoting horse racing suggested that she was in a less desirable neighbourhood. The overcast sky grew darker and street lamps sputtered to life. The lights grew hazy as the clouds opened up with a freezing drizzle. Adrenaline waning, Ruth pulled her coat tighter, the evening chill creeping into her bones. She fished the notes out from her pocket gauging how much money she had, and decided it wasn't enough to cover a taxi, especially since she didn't know her location. Tyres squealed and a car pulled around the corner. Ruth flattened herself against the wall of a shop. It was hard to see, but the silhouette on the passenger side resembled Eddie. Ruth ducked into the shop. It was a tiny convenience store, and she made a beeline toward the back, hiding amongst shelves of dust covered ready meals and cleaning products.

"Anything I can help you with?" The man at the cash yelled back to her.

Ruth casually walked to the front of the store, not wanting to arouse the owner's suspicions. She grabbed the first thing that caught her eye. She placed the chocolate bar on the counter and pulled out one of the notes.

"That all?" The man glared at her from over the top of a magazine, a half-naked woman displayed on the cover.

She nodded. The owner took the bill, obviously unhappy to be making change for such a small purchase. He handed over a fist full of coins.

"Do you know where the nearest phone box is?" Ruth asked.

He slammed the till drawer shut with a definitive bang, and looked at her incredulously. "No one uses phone booths anymore."

"So, that's a no?" She tilted her head, hoping he would find it in his heart to give her more information.

The man shrugged his shoulders and went back to reading his magazine. Admitting defeat, Ruth returned to the street, the shop bell tinkling behind her as the door closed. Freezing rain nipped at her face and she retreated under the awning of the shop. She opened up the chocolate bar, closing her eyes as she let herself indulge for a moment in the sweet taste of sugar.

"Hey."

A voice sounded beside her and she opened her eyes in alarm. A ragged man smelling of booze and urine stood by her shoulder.

"Got any change?"

She shook her head and quickly stepped away from him. In her haste, she walked off of the kerb and a horn honked as a car veered away nearly hitting her. Heart pounding, she quickly moved back onto the pavement, her head spinning. She might have taken too much paracetamol. She could feel the eyes of the man watching her intently. Was he really living rough or was he someone in disguise. Ruth looked about the street, every passing stranger becoming a potential enemy. Russians, agents of Six, rogue actors – she didn't know. She needed to find a phone. Drawing up her collar, she retreated into the bulk of her coat and hurried through the darkness, sliding like a ghost into the cover of the night.


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N- For some reason, I had a hard time letting go of this chapter. I hope it brings you some enjoyment. Thank you so much for reading and as always reviews are greatly appreciated_!

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It should have come as no surprise how easily he slipped back into his old habits. Two glasses of scotch as he waited at the bar, the empty bottle of wine that now sat on the table in front of him, and the tantalising thought of a brandy with dessert. He was even entertaining the idea of a fine Monte Cristo that lay waiting for him in a box at home. Of course, that would all depend on the direction of the evening. Harry swirled the wine in his glass and took another sip, stealing an appreciative glance over the rim at his companion. It was obvious why Ariadne Kolos had chosen that particular restaurant; the subdued lighting cast a very flattering glow on whoever sat beneath it. He only hoped the lights were as flattering to him as they were to her. Unaware of his thoughts, his dinner companion concentrated on slicing her entree, eating her meal with enticingly painted lips. Her blouse was unbuttoned to the point of suggestion but not past modesty, her hair loose and unpinned, framing her face. Yes, it would all depend on how the evening unfolded whether or not he would partake in a cigar or indulge in a different sort of vice. Sensing his gaze, Ariadne gave him a smile.

"I'm curious - what is it that you do all day?"

"I'll tell you, if you tell me what you do," he answered, evading the question, wondering why she was so intent on discovering the details of his work.

"Meetings, conference calls, entertaining clients. In fact, my firm has box seats at Lord's - if you're interested." She raised an inquiring brow. " Unless that's looking too far ahead."

"Spring is around the corner," Harry conceded, salivating slightly at the idea of prime seats at the hallowed venue. A jaded man might think it was almost too good to be true; a beautiful, intelligent woman, professional, cricket enthusiast. And Harry was nothing if not jaded. Never take anything at face value. Still, he was curious to see where an association with this woman would lead.

Ariadne lifted the tip of her fork and subtly pointed in the direction of the bar. "There's a man over there that keeps looking this way."

"Ah, yes." Harry cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, the air of romance slightly tarnished. "That's my bodyguard. Trevor."

"Bodyguard?" she echoed in surprise. "That certainly makes things a bit crowded, doesn't it?"

"Don't worry." The corner of his mouth lifted with a crooked grin. "I can dispense of him should the need arise."

Understanding the inference, Ariadne smiled down at her meal. Her foot brushed against his, and Harry wondered if it was purely by accident or a silent invitation. He scanned the restaurant searching for their waiter, intent on ordering another bottle of wine. The dive back into alcohol had created a welcome haze and he planned to sustain the bubble for as long as possible. It was the least he deserved after his visit with the psychologist and his meeting with Sasha. He sat back, giving himself permission to enjoy the moment, appreciating the food and the company. Through the clatter of cutlery and the murmur of voices, the notes from an overhead speaker filtered into his ear. A familiar tune that he could not place. He frowned in concentration, mulling over whether or not it was the same tune that had played the night he had met Ariadne. This time, it was not a solo piano but a lush orchestra, strings rising in an aching crescendo. It wasn't the same song, he concluded; it was the feeling that it evoked. All that was perfect about the evening faded, his contentment poised in sharp relief against what was missing.

"Senschut," he whispered.

"What's that?"

Ariadne's question brought him back to the present moment, the feeling of unfulfilled longing retreating but not entirely abating.

"A German word that came to mind."

"What does it mean?"

He pursed his lips, holding back his words, knowing how tactless it would be to speak of another woman. It would also be an admission of vulnerability, one that he could not reveal to this stranger.

"It's hard to translate."

"Ah," she accepted his deferral. "Germans have a word for everything, don't they?"

Harry nodded, making the mental effort to dismiss the strange feeling of loss that had enveloped him and focus on the present. The pocket of his suit jacket vibrated, and he closed his eyes, annoyed at the intrusion, wanting to ignore the call but concerned that it might be important. He discretely took the mobile out of his pocket and looked at the display under the cover of the table. It was an unknown number.

"Everything alright?" Ariadne asked.

He placed the mobile back in his pocket. If it was important, they would leave a message.

"Yes, it's all fine." His wine glass was annoyingly empty. He needed a brandy. "Are you interested in dessert?"

"They serve a decadent chocolate cake here. The piece is entirely too big for one person."

Her foot brushed against his leg, the contact lingering for a moment, the meaning clear. He returned the pressure with his calf. It had been a long time since he had indulged in chocolate cake. Spotting the waiter, he raised his hand, but his pocket vibrated mid-motion. A light blinked indicating a message.

"Sorry." He gave Ariadne a look of sheepish contrition. "I should probably take this."

Taking the napkin from his lap, he dabbed the corners of his mouth and then rose. A few paces away, a tiny alcove offered refuge from the ambient noise of the restaurant and a safe distance from prying ears. He pressed the menu buttons and held the mobile to his cheek. A planted palm stood in front of him, shielding him from the other patrons, and he idly picked off a brown leaf as he begrudgingly listened to the message. As the words of the message tumbled out, his fingers closed around the dead leaf, absently crushing it to dust. The plant in front of him blurred and he leaned back against the wall. Fingers shaking, he replayed the message. He looked through the palm fronds, eyes darting back and forth, certain that he was being watched. The sound of rushing water filled his ears as his arm fell to his side, the mobile hanging limply in his hand. The effects of the evening's alcohol drained from his system. The noise of the restaurant seeped back into his consciousness. Limbs moving of their own volition, he gave himself over to automatic pilot and walked back to the table.

"Terribly sorry." He stood looking down at Ariadne. "Something's come up."

"Of course." She gave him a disappointed half smile of understanding. "I suppose that's what your job entails."

"I'll settle the bill." He patted his pockets.

She stood up, making ready to leave with him. "I'll go too."

He put up his hand in protest, not wanting to be followed. "Don't end the evening on my account. You should stay and have the cake."

Her eyes narrowed slightly, assessing how far she could push him. She leaned over and brushed her lips against his cheek and whispered in his ear. "Next time."

He pulled his head back, putting a modest distance between her face and his. He nodded, giving her the impression that there would be a next time without committing to it verbally. Cutting the conversation short, he left the woman and his previous thoughts about the evening behind him at the table and made his way toward the coat check.

"Everything alright, sir."

Abandoning his post at the bar, Trevor appeared at Harry's shoulder. Harry grimaced, the presence of his security detail having completely fled from his mind.

"Yes, I have to go back to Thames House for a moment." He shrugged on his coat and motioned to the back of the restaurant. "I need to visit the gents before we leave."

"I'll check it out first."

"No need, I'll be fine."

Before his bodyguard could protest, Harry was off in the direction of the washroom. As he entered the small corridor, he exhaled a sigh of relief; his wager on the layout of the restaurant paying off. He walked past the washroom signs and sailed through a swinging steel door that led into the kitchen. Pots clanged, steam hissed, and grills sizzled as the staff shouted at one another. The overhead fluorescent lighting gave him no cover and a flustered sous chef warned him that the area was for staff only. He ignored the call and headed toward a red exit sign. The metal crash bar squeaked and the door banged loudly behind him as he stepped through. Dustbins and the smell of rotting food greeted him in a back alley. Rain splattered his face, and he blinked the drops away, turning up the collar of his coat. Without pausing, he slipped on his gloves and walked out of the alley.

The pavement was dotted with fellow travellers, vainly raising their hands in hopes of hailing a cab. Taxi after occupied taxi drove past, the chances of securing one looking slim. Harry glanced over his shoulder, anticipating that at any moment Trevor would turn up by his side. A few metres down the block, a young man proved successful in hailing a cab. Harry wasted no time. As the man opened the door, Harry stepped in front of him, feeling no compunction as he cut the man off and snared the vehicle for himself. He closed the door on the young man's shouts of outrage and calmly relayed his destination to the driver.

Rain tapped against the window, turning into angry fingers of sleet demanding to be let in. The cab lurched in fits and starts through the congested streets giving Harry time to think. Years of field experience clamoured in his head, a voice warning him that he had no idea what he was walking into. Instinct countered with the maxim that gambling was his way of life. But this wasn't a calculated risk, this was reckless by any standard.

Through the veil of rain, the station sign appeared in the distance, but before they could reach it the taxi slowed down to a crawl. Cars were parked two deep as pedestrians dodge between them, their umbrellas losing the battle with the wind. The driver turned to Harry and shrugged his shoulders admitting defeat. In the melee of the evening traffic, he couldn't pull any closer to the station entrance. Harry pulled out a wad of notes and handed them over to the driver, not stopping to calculate the fare. Undaunted by the rain, he jumped out of the cab.

Tyres screeched and Harry plastered himself back against the side of the taxi, narrowly avoiding the wheels of an oncoming car. The collar of his coat was scant protection against the elements but he remained impervious to the sting of the rain, focusing instead on picking his way through the traffic. At the station entrance, commuters jostled and shoved against each other as umbrellas locked together. Rather than fight the tide, Harry let himself be carried along. He shoved an unknown bill into the machine and took whatever ticket presented itself.

The stairs were slick with water and he hastily grabbed the railing as his foot slid on the tread. It wouldn't do to fall victim to a concussion. The idea of injury gave him pause and he stopped, leaving the crowd to funnel around him, indifferent to his dilemma. The voice of experience rose once again. What was he doing? He was ignoring all his training, throwing caution to the wind and running headlong into an uncontrolled setting. For all he knew, it could be a set-up, a massive bait and switch to lure him away from his protection detail. For indeed that is exactly what he had done; given his guard the slip. They might be preying on the fact that in his current state of mind he would readily believe any message that was sent to him. He ran his hand across his face, wiping the dripping rain from his cheeks. Turn around, go back. He pounded his fist on the rail. Blind instinct drove him forward. Keep going.

Harry immersed himself in the crush of commuters; head down, a face in the crowd, invisible. If it was a setup, he would make it harder for them to find him. One level below and he stopped, eyes scanning the crowd. In the moving sea of humanity, one man stood out. Dressed in a leather jacket, the man waited by a newsstand, paper in hand, his head moving back and forth as he methodically dissected the crowd. All the hallmarks of surveillance. Harry studied the man, trying to discern his motives. Before Harry had time to look way, the man's eyes locked onto him. Unable to move, Harry stared back. A crush of people passed between them and the stranger disappeared. Harry searched for him again, committing his description to memory; shorn hair, stocky build, tattoo. The man was nowhere to be seen. They were pulling him in. This was their modus operandi. The cover of a crowd, a man bumping into him, a sudden prick so subtle that he would think it the corner of a briefcase or an umbrella. After a few steps, Harry would feel dizzy. The deed done before he even knew what had happened. That was all it had taken to fell Tariq. Harry was well versed in their playbook and yet he still kept going. Let them do to him what they will.

One more flight of stairs and he was down to the platform. The foot traffic slowed as the crowd was funnelled into the waiting area. Conversation evaporated and the atmosphere grew eerily silent, stranger pressed against stranger. Craning his neck, Harry looked over the crowd. He shouldered his way through the minuscule amount of breathing space, garnering angry looks for his trouble.

A voice crackled over the loudspeaker advising travellers to stand back from the edge, but there was no place to move. A gust of wind stirred a page from an abandoned newspaper and it floated onto the track. Harry followed its path with his eyes. Lost and forlorn, it skitted along the rails. A different scenario crossed his mind, and he searched the crowd, looking to see if the unknown man was in range. One small shove and it could be Harry on the tracks. Given his recent mindset, it would be ruled as suicide. No one would investigate him, no one would care.

Beneath his feet, the platform rumbled and the crowd stirred in anticipation. Deep in the tunnel steel clacked against steel, signalling the train's impending arrival. Harry squinted at the crowd, his internal clock telling him that time was running out.

Wind rushed through the tunnel, ruffling hair and fanning coats, preceding the train as it pulled into the station. The crowd jostled towards the doors, but Harry hung back, edging towards the wall. As passengers disembarked his heart thudded in his chest, pounding with expectation. The train idled, air hissing from its brakes, the doors remaining open. He scanned the interior of the carriages, eyes darting over the passengers who had remained on board. The train's destination was announced over the speaker. No, he intoned, certain that once the train had left the station, all hope would also vanish with it. The doors closed with a final hiss. Easing out of the station, the train picked up speed and departed. Harry stood alone on the platform.

Fool. He had been a fool to believe that it was her voice on his mobile. They had played him. Sampled her speech and constructed a message that he could not ignore. It must have been her voice on the phone, it had to be. He knew every cadence of her speech, he had heard it every night in his dreams. If it had not been a trick then surely he had gone mad. The visit with the psychologist had not tempered his fantasies it had only created a different delusion.

The clatter of wheels sounded again and a train from the opposite direction barrelled into the station. Brakes squealed as it trundled to a stop. Passengers disgorged, spilling onto the far platform, a new set taking their place. Brakes hissed, a garbled voice made an announcement and the train continued on its way. The scene would continue on repeat. The world carried on without him.

He stood staring at the opposite platform, the weight of his folly keeping him in place. The sound of tapping shoes faded, and voices were swallowed by the stairs, leaving him with only silence for company. On the opposite platform, a lone figure emerged from a place by the wall, hands hidden in the pockets of an overcoat. His muscles tensed, ears anticipating the sound of a bullet ricocheting about the station, certain that the figure was hiding a gun. Against his better judgment, he stepped closer to the edge of the platform and peered across the track. It was a woman; dark hair and a grey trench coat. He closed his eyes.

_Go away, you're not real._

He opened his eyes. The woman was looking straight at him. He stared at her in disbelief, and she remained equally frozen, trapped by his gaze. The paper stirred on the track, the air shifting, signalling a distant train. Before he could do anything, the woman turned and moved toward the stairs. Mind slowly kicking into gear, his feet propelled him to the stairs on his side, each step coming faster and faster until he was running. His lungs protested as he took the stairs two at a time. Once he had reached the top, he made a beeline in the direction of the opposite staircase. Through the crowd, he could see the top of her head weaving toward him. His mouth moved with a silent prayer. Please be real. With singular determination, he charged through the crowd, pushing unsuspecting bystanders out of the way. He would not stop until the illusion collided with his reality.

She walked straight into him, and he crushed her against his chest, arms winding like steel, trapping her against his body. It must be her, though his arms could not tell for certain, he had never had the pleasure of holding her so close before. The scent of her hair was different but he was afraid to let her go to get a better look, willing to accept the anger of a complete stranger if only to pretend it was her for just one moment.

"Oh Harry," she half sobbed against his neck.

There was only one woman in the world who said his name like that. His embrace tightened and he squeezed his eyes shut, unable to stop tears from rising and spilling out. His chest shook as he let out a ragged breath. This couldn't be real; fate would never give him a second, no third chance with this woman. She pulled her head back and looked up at him. He dared to look into her eyes. Blue as an unfathomable ocean, swimming with tears. It was her. His mouth moved but he could not speak. He pulled her back into him but she pressed her hands against his chest.

"We have to get out of here," Ruth breathlessly warned him. "They might be following me."

His mind grappled with the meaning of the sentence, ration and reason struggling to put emotion away. "Who's following you?"

"I don't know who they are. We have to go."

Harry held her at arm's length, a realisation catching up with him. The man at the newsstand wasn't looking for him, he was looking for Ruth. The instinct to protect her kicked in, and he grabbed her hand, pulling her through the crowd. He could feel her being buffeted against the people in his wake but he didn't stop. She pulled on his arm, resisting his tug.

"Wait," she huffed. "I can't go so fast."

He turned and for the first time registered her appearance. Hair bedraggled, wearing an oversized coat, dirty slippers on her feet. What had happened to her? Her hand rose to her side and she pressed it against her ribs. How could he have forgotten?

"I'm sorry." His voice cracked with the words.

It was more than an apology for walking too fast; it was a request for forgiveness. The lies, the deception, the shard of glass - everything. Whether she discerned his deeper meaning, he did not know, but he knew they could not waste time standing still. Tightening his grip on her hand, he threaded his way through the crowd, guiding her along at a slower pace.

On the street, a gaggle of laughing young women exited from a taxi. One of the party was still in the back seat paying off the fare as Harry ushered Ruth into the cab. Once the dust had settled, Harry gave the driver the first address that came to mind. The cab sped into the night, and they sat in silence not daring to speak, hands laced together on the seat between them. The cab pulled up in front of a darkened house, and Harry dispatched the driver with record speed. Still holding her hand, he hurried up the path to the door. Ruth glanced about the street as he fiddled with the lock.

As they stepped in, light from a nearby street lamp spilled through the transom overhead, barely illuminating the hallway. The lock gave a reassuring click as Harry turned the bolt behind him. It was the house where he had met Elena, but he would never divulge that information. Somehow, bringing Ruth into the space dispelled the trace of any other visitor that had come before her. Afraid to venture in on her own, she stood next to him, waiting. Her breath came in soft pants, and he found her arm in the darkness, claiming her hand once again. He felt compelled to hold her lest she disappear into the ether and become a dream. He had managed to maintain contact with her through the entirety of their taxi ride. Or perhaps it was she who had constantly touched him. He thought it best to leave the lights off, though the creak of the floorboards beneath their feet telegraphed their presence in the house. He ushered her over to an ancient settee and sat her down. He pulled up a chair and sat across from her, taking her cold hand back into his.

"Tell me what happened," he urged.

She looked at him curiously and brought her hand up to his face, her palm caressing his cheek.

"Are you real?" she whispered

Her caress startled him, awakening a thirst in the desert of his life so unaccustomed to touch. He placed his hand over hers, the cool of her fingers permeating his skin. He pressed against it, wanting to hold her hand against him forever. "Are you?"

She answered him with a faint smile and then removed her hand. "I don't know what's happening."

"They told me you were dead."

"They told me the same thing," she echoed back.

They sat for a moment staring at each other in stunned silence, digesting the fact that an unseen force had callously played with their lives.

"Who told you I was dead?" Harry finally asked.

"He said he was from Six. Mark Wilson. He said that you had been killed during a meeting with Gavrik. And they wanted me to figure out Gavrik's finances as a way of avenging your death."

Harry sat back, trying to process the information. "That doesn't make any sense. Why would Six deceive you like that?"

"Why would someone want you to believe that I was dead?" she countered.

He shrugged his shoulders, trying to puzzle out a reason. "Hobble me? Get me out of the Service? I was pretty much incapacitated with grief ."

"You were?"

"Why does that surprise you?"

"I don't know."

She tried to pull her hand away from his, but he would not let her go. Instead, he gathered both of her hands in his and rubbed her icy fingers, gliding his palm over hers, moving along the bones of her wrists and back. Her skin remained alarmingly cold. He dismissed the idea that she was indeed a spectre. His knee accidentally brushed against her leg and he quickly moved it away. Odd, how he welcomed the advances of a stranger under a dinner table but stalled at the idea of touching the woman sitting before him. A figurine in a glass case, far more valuable, and he would treat her accordingly. Besides, her confinement may have given her time to rethink everything she had said to him, her feelings may have changed.

"Where were you?" he pressed.

"I was in a safe house. Or that's what they called it. There was a nurse, Anna. Although I suspect she was a Russian informant. And another man, Eddie, that I thought was with Six but I'm not sure. They were going to fly me out of the country. That's when I escaped."

"How did you do that?"

"Through a hole in the wall."

He smiled, trying to fathom her ingenuity, envisioning her tunnelling underground.

"You're safe here."

"Am I?" she looked around, eyes wild in the darkness. "Are we really safe anywhere?"

He did not reply, she already knew the answer. She looked down at their joined hands, her head moving closer to his, her voice lowering to a whisper in case the walls had ears.

"I took a chance in phoning you." Her hands tightened around his fingers. "When I heard your voice, I could barely speak." Her voice faded out and her body swayed slightly. "I wasn't sure, even if you were alive, that you would still be in the Service."

"I wanted to leave but they wouldn't let me." He shuffled in closer to her. "There's an Interpol warrant out on me."

"Why?"

"Someone had to pay for your death."

She pulled her head back and considered the information. "I'm oddly flattered by that. Most men would have sent flowers to show that they care."

It was a weak attempt at humour. Their eyes met in the darkness. If there was a time for confession it was now, but a chasm of unarticulated emotion lay between them, too large to fill with mere words. Their language had always been action. He had given up a state secret for her, and she had sacrificed her life twice for him. No one could say they lacked for grand gestures. It was the mechanics, the ordinary nuts and bolts of a relationship that tripped them up time and again. Chains of unresolved longing, years of denial, a history too overwhelming to contemplate. So much to unpick. His knee gravitated back to her leg but this time he let it rest against her thigh. She extracted her hand from his and reached out to the lapel of his overcoat. Head tilted to one side, she concentrated on tracing the outline of his lapel, as if rediscovering a lost object. She trapped her bottom lip between her teeth, her chest moving jaggedly with a suppressed sob. He swallowed a lump of dry remorse. Tell her what you whispered into the night. Words swam within him and his mouth opened, but he was unable to give voice to the sentiments that he had said over and over in his dreams. She must know by now how he felt. Her hand stopped on his lapel and a shiver ran through her.

"You're freezing."

"I can't seem to warm up."

"There might be some blankets upstairs. I'll have a look about for some tea."

"I've been dying for a cup of tea."

He rose, debating whether or not to leave her, afraid that she might disappear if she left his sight. She leaned back on the settee and closed her eyes. He would take the chance and get something warm into her. He found his way to the kitchen. A quick investigation of the cupboards turned up an ancient box of tea. The battered kettle clanked as he filled it up, the gas burner hissing as he waited for the water to boil. He took a quick look out of the window, scanning the rear garden. Every shadow became a possible intruder, every noise a threat. He turned his back to the window and leaned against the counter, body shaking from the shock of the past few hours. The whistle sounded on the kettle and he shook his head with a start. Pulling down a chipped brown mug, he poured the water over the sad looking tea bag. He would have to make do without milk or sugar.

The sitting room was empty when he returned, but he subverted his panic by concluding that she had gone upstairs to find a blanket. Steam swirled in the darkness as he balanced the cup of tea in one hand and carefully made his way up the stairs. The first door revealed an empty room. He looked into the second bedroom and was about to leave but stopped when he spotted a dark form lying on the bed. Evidently, she had found a blanket and had wrapped herself up tightly in its folds. Closing the door behind him, he approached the bed.

"Ruth," he whispered.

There was no response. He leaned in closer. She lay on her side, eyes closed, her shoulder moving with the rhythmic breathing of sleep. He carefully placed the cup on the bedside table and sat down on the edge of the bed. She did not stir. What had she been through to cause her to fall into such a deep sleep? Adrenaline still coursed through his veins, he wanted to talk to her all night, lose himself in the inflection of her voice. In lieu of conversation, he contented himself with studying her face, marvelling at the reality of her features. A strand of hair had fallen across her forehead. He hesitated, thoughts of his schoolboy self being warned by his mother not to touch the fragile figurine lest it break. He had never heeded warnings before. With one finger, he brushed the strand of hair back into place. He let his finger trail down her cheek, his knuckle tracing the outline of her jaw, not wanting to disturb her but unable to resist the temptation to touch her.

A sigh left him as he contemplated the situation. He would be missed, his security detail would be frantic. He didn't care. He toed off his shoes and removed his overcoat and suit jacket. A spare blanket lay on a chair, and he picked it up as he crossed over to the other side of the bed. He lowered himself down, the springs groaning beneath his weight. He lay as close to her as he dared. A flood of lonely nights came back to him, he could not leave her now. He would steal one night with her. His hand hovered above her hip, worried that it might be one gesture too far. The time for hesitation was over, every moment was precious. He placed his hand on her hip, the curve of her waist barely discernible beneath the blanket. But it was enough to assure him that she was real.

"Oh, Ruth." He whispered her name into the stillness of the night. "This time, I will protect you."


	8. Chapter 8

An unseen weight pressed on her chest, squeezing the air from her lungs, oxygen seeping away. She needed to breathe. With one huge gasp, Ruth drew a bottomless breath, lungs filling to capacity. Her eyes flew open with alarm, body sensing the chill of an unfamiliar mattress. She tried to move her arms, but they were bound to her sides. Her heart thudded with the idea that her escape had been no more than a dream, and in reality, she had been moved to a different safe house. It took a few moments before she realised that her bindings were no more than the wrap of an old woollen blanket. Heart rate settling, she stared at a chipped brown mug that sat on the bedside table, mind steeped in fog, hoping to orient herself. She rolled over, unwrapping herself from the cocoon of the blanket. On the other side of the bed, a tell-tale indentation in the pillow showed that someone had slept beside her. The fog cleared and memory resurfaced; Harry. Where had he gone? Her stomach growled, demanding her attention, her only sustenance the chocolate bar from the night before. She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed, head woozy from lack of food, her side giving a pang of protest. Lifting her top, her hand gravitated to the bandage, a hard lump detectable beneath her fingertips. She peeled back the tape and fished out the USB drive. She had completely forgotten to tell Harry about it the night before. A second glance at the dressing revealed a dark brown spot. Dried blood. It was nothing to worry about, she only needed to clean it and change the dressing. Her toe found a still damp slipper and lacking any other footwear she put it on and headed downstairs to find Harry

In the light of day, the white plaster walls bespoke of a faded elegance; a house labouring under neglect. A set of shutters covered up the main front window. The heavy silence of the house suggested that she was alone and she hesitated at the bottom of the stairs.

"Harry?" she called softly. There was no reply.

She continued to the back of the house and found a forlornly out of date kitchen. A battered tin kettle sat on the stove, a box of tea on the counter. With little expectation, she opened a cupboard door. A dented tin of soup and stale crackers. The fridge was also regrettably empty. He must have gone out for some food. She crossed to the window, the ghost of her face reflected in the glass, a stranger staring back at her. She could barely recall who she was; her life was missing so many pieces she would never be able to put it all back together. Presumed dead, homeless, hovering between worlds. Oh, how she wished that Harry was there, though what she would say to him she had no idea. All she wanted was his grounding presence. Through the dirty panes of the window, the weak sun shone over tattered branches, shrubs as unkempt as she. It didn't matter. After days of confinement, the view of the outside world was glorious.

The lock on the front door clicked, sending Ruth's heart into her throat. Her head swung around and she reflexively looked for a place to hide. Silly woman, it was probably Harry. Heart now filled with anticipation, she walked out into the hall. It was not Harry.

"Malcolm?" she exclaimed, surprise and a tinge of disappointment mingling in her greeting.

"Ruth." The former spook walked toward her carrying a takeaway tray, a bag slung over his shoulder. He stopped and looked at her with wonder. "I thought that you were dead."

"You're not the only one." She touched his arm fondly, recovering from her initial disappointment. "It's good to see you."

"It's not very often one gets to see a friend come back to life. Twice."

Ruth smiled and gestured to the tray. "Is that coffee?"

"Yes." Malcolm held up a paper bag. "And some pastries."

"Bless you." Famished, she discarded ceremony and took the paper bag from his hand. "Where's Harry?"

"He sent me to look after you. Help you figure out what's going on." He patted his satchel. "I brought along my laptop.

"Fantastic," Ruth mumbled through a mouthful of Danish.

"Were shall we set up?"

Ruth pointed a sugar-coated finger toward the kitchen. Malcolm followed her direction and set the laptop down on the table. Ruth pulled a second pastry from the bag, lemon cream filling her mouth.

"These Danishes are heaven."

"I've no idea what's going on, something about agents from Six." Malcolm flipped open the laptop and powered up the screen. "Harry said you would bring me up to speed."

"It's a long story." As anxious as she was to find out who had held her, she still harboured a frustrated curiosity over her foray into Gavrik's finances. "But maybe you can help me with this." Wiping the crumbs from her fingers, she pulled the USB stick from her pocket."

"What is it?" Malcolm asked.

"The financial information on Ilya Gavrik, former Russian Foreign Minister. I could only get so deep into his accounts, but I'm sure with your expertise I could get even further."

Malcolm preened, flattered by her acknowledgement of his skills. "I'll see if we can piggyback on someone's internet."

They sat shoulder to shoulder at the kitchen table, Ruth finishing off the last of the pastries as she explained to Malcolm the trails that she had uncovered. She covertly studied Malcolm, thinking that like Harry, she had rarely seen him out of a suit. In casual clothes, her former colleague looked as if he had barely aged a day. She wished she could say the same for herself. She had missed him, her return to the Grid all those years ago a little less welcoming because of his absence. It was a comfort how easily they returned to the conversational shorthand that they had developed during their time on the Grid. The morning wore on, and Malcolm slowly peeled back the layers of security that Ruth had been unable to breach.

"This Sobol Holdings keeps on popping up." Ruth pointed at the screen. "It's registered in Turks and Caicos."

"It's comprised of two shell companies." Malcolm deftly entered more keystrokes. "Belonging to Elena Gavrik and Sasha Gavrik."

"That's the wife and son."

"It's standard practice. Dilute your visible net worth by spreading the money around but keep it in the family."

"The company connected to Elena Gavrik – does anything flow through that?"

"There's been a number of large deposits to it." He whistled through his teeth. "That's quite a balance."

Ruth sat back in her chair. "So, what's the law here? A man kills his wife, there are accounts in her name- ostensibly with his money, but can he claim it? Does the Forfeiture Rule apply?"

"You mean, one can't kill one's spouse and inherit the money," said Malcolm.

"What if the people who had me weren't looking into Gavrik's finances but were trying to figure out what was in Elena's account. Who would benefit from that?"

"Theoretically, her money would revert back to the state - the Russian government. Or the bank holding the assets. Or the last country she resided in."

Ruth rubbed her head. "God, I know nothing about international estate law."

"Of course, you do. You know everything. We just have to tickle your brain." Energized by the dry topic, Malcolm flexed his fingers, ready to dig in. "It's just like old times, isn't it?"

It was nothing like old times. She was twice removed from her old self. Not to mention that she hadn't showered or changed, her skin covered in a film of tired grease. The collar of her turtleneck scratched against her throat, her feet were cold, the waistband of her skirt pulled across her stomach.

"I need a dress."

"What do you need to address?" Malcolm asked absently, his focus trained on his laptop.

"No, a dress. Clothing. I need to go out and get some clothes."

Malcolm stopped typing and looked at her. "Why? You look fine."

Ruth stared at him, wondering if he was being kind or if he was truly oblivious to her appearance. Unaffected by her gaze, he blithely returned to his investigation of international law.

"At any rate, you can't leave."

She raised her eyebrows at his decree. "I've been cooped up in safe houses for days." She received no response from Malcolm as he continued to type. "I need disinfectant and dressing."

"I'll nip to the chemist." He squinted at the screen.

"I need a pair of shoes." She wiggled her toe through the growing hole in her slipper.

"Tell me your size, and I'll get you some."

Malcolm's ready answer to each of her requests rankled her sense of autonomy and highlighted her lack of independence. She still had no control over her life, meagre as it may be. It only heightened her determination to leave the house. It was a battle of wills, or at least it was on her part. She had no choice.

"I need some feminine hygiene products."

Malcolm's fingers froze, the tip of his ear turning red. The words that ran a chill through every man.

"Unless you could get that for me too."

Malcolm looked at her from the corner of his eye. Ruth gave him a look of pure innocence.

"Harry explicitly said that you could not leave."

"He doesn't have to know." She knew she was working against her better interests, leaving the security of the safe house. Though safe houses were not always reliably impenetrable as her stint with Gary Hicks in one had proved. The was an element of cabin fever to her actions, a resistance to the suffocation. She needed to breathe. She was reminded of the time she had convinced her step-brother to let her try a cigarette. "He'll never find out."

"Of course, he will. He's Harry."

"Two hours tops." She gave him her most pleading look. "There must be a place close to here."

Malcolm let out a breath of exasperation, conceding that he was in a losing battle. "One hour," he negotiated.

Ruth didn't quibble but showed her agreement to the deal by rising from her chair.

.

The leather stretched with a satisfying tightness over her calf. Ruth pulled up the zip of the boot and ran her hand over the material, flexing her foot. Heaven. Her soggy slippers lay on the carpet beside her seat, along with a hastily opened package of tights. The shop manager hovered on the periphery, his arms crossed, clearly trying to discern the story behind Ruth's bedraggled appearance.

"I'll take these. Can I wear them now?"

"You have to pay for them first," the man remarked, frost in his voice.

"Of course." Ruth stood up and gathered her sodden slippers. "Is there a bin handy?"

Ruth followed the man to the till, Malcolm in tow. The clerk rang up the purchase, and Ruth blinked at the total. She should feel bad for the price of the boots, but she didn't. She didn't ask for much in life, there was no harm in expecting quality now and again. Malcolm took out a ream of notes. Plastic left a trail. The clerk raised his eyebrows, his eyes darting back and forth between Malcolm and Ruth. Let him infer what he like, she didn't care. As they walked away, she hooked her arm around Malcolm's elbow, her height now closer to his.

"You're having fun. Admit it."

"Forty-five minutes," he replied sternly.

After days of solitude trapped inside the same four walls, Ruth's good humour would not be dampened. She merrily led Malcolm off to the next store, her feet tapped solidly on the flooring. Amazing what a pair of new shoes could do to restore one's confidence. Plastic basket in hand, Ruth headed down the aisle. Top of the list was a package of gauze, disinfectant and a bottle of paracetamol. She moved onto lotions and shampoos, then over to cosmetics. Malcolm followed behind her, frowning as he picked up an unknown bottle, examining it as if it were uranium. Aware that time was passing, Ruth quickly found her regular products and tossed them in the basket. Malcolm gave a subtle cough as the products started to pile up. Ruth shrugged her shoulders.

"I may be dead, but I don't have to look bad."

"I never knew being a woman required so much paraphernalia."

"It's a full-time job."

"Obviously."

Another trip to the checkout counter and Malcolm's wallet showed signs of depleting funds. It was decided that he would gather more as Ruth carried on to the clothing store.

It was hard not to dawdle in the lingerie department; she had begrudgingly endured her current set of matronly undergarments for the past few days. She fingered the black lace of a bra, salacious images crossing her mind. She quickly dismissed them and chose a more sensible style but still making a concession to black. In the clothing department, hangers clattered together as she methodically scoured the rack, looking for a suitable garment. Too young, too bright, too expensive. Finally, she settled on two dresses and headed towards the change rooms.

Leaving the smaller articles with an attendant at the counter, Ruth entered the chamber of cubicles. Her reflection in the mirrored door caught her off guard. Unwashed hair, dark circles under her eyes, skin winter pale; between the fluorescent lights and the orange turtle neck she did indeed look like death warmed over. No wonder the shoe clerk had been suspicious of her. She quickly slipped off the turtle neck. The bandage near her ribs showed more brown spots then she had originally noticed. She made a mental note to remember to change the dressing. She hung the orange top on a hook, fingers pausing on the hem. There was something hard, like a button. She pressed on it as she tried to discern what it was. Using her fingernails, she picked at the stitching. Hidden in the seam was a little silver disc, two tiny wires protruding from its edges. The flesh on her bare arms rose with goosebumps, her mouth opening in disbelief. Where there was one, there might be another. She tore at her skirt, not caring about the garment, ripping at the seam and finding the same disc in the waistband. She dropped the skirt as if it were on fire, her hand rising to her mouth, her heart pounding in her chest. Her stomach heaved and she schooled herself not to vomit. She looked around the change room, overcome with paranoia, certain they were watching her at that very moment. She held her hands on her head, tempering down her thoughts, searching through her memory, trying to recollect if she had seen anyone suspicious in the store. She had to tell Malcolm. Her fingers were on the latch of the door before she remembered her state of undress. She had no choice but to wear the turtleneck and the tweed skirt. She slipped the skirt back on, hands shaking as she did the zip, silently talking herself down from her ledge of panic. Briefly, she thought of abandoning the devices in the change room but decided against it. Grabbing the dresses and her grey coat she walked with a steadiness she did not feel, back to the attendant at the counter. Mustering a half smile of thanks, she picked up the other articles. She emerged from the change rooms and scanned the floor looking for Malcolm. He stood awkwardly in the menswear section. As she approached him, a look of relief came over his face.

"Did you get everything?"

Nudging him with her shoulder, Ruth moved him towards the perimeter of the store. She opened her hand and showed him the devices. His eyes widened.

"Bloody Nora," he cursed softly.

He gave her such a look of reproach that she felt she had personally let him down.

"Are they what I think they are?"

"Tracking devices," he confirmed.

"That means they know where the safe house is."

"They probably followed us here."

"Should we destroy them?"

"Then they'll know that we've found them."

"Can we use them as a decoy?" she asked. "Send them off on another direction?"

"That might work."

"I need to find a new coat." Her fingers absently picked at her top in a nervous frenzy. "And I'll have to change."

With an unfocused gaze, Ruth selected the first dark coat that her hands landed on, leaving it to Malcolm to tell her that it looked half decent. As they left the outerwear section, Ruth spotted an oversized shoulder bag, and receiving a nod from Malcolm, she picked it up and added it to their purchases.

There was a line at the till, and they stood waiting, shoulders tense, eyes darting about. The customer in front of them adamantly disputed a price, minutes ticking by, adding to the delay. Ruth was about to suggest that they abandon their purchases when they finally reached the counter. The young saleswoman cheerily asked Ruth if she had found everything and then proceeded to launch into a spiel touting the merits of the in-store credit card. The scanner chirped loudly as the woman slowly waved the wand over each price tag. The interval between beeps grew longer, an excruciating countdown that promised no end, Ruth's nerves stretching to the breaking point. Her toes tapped as she silently urged the saleswoman to hurry up. As if sensing Ruth's impatience, the woman went even slower. Ruth casually looked about, discreetly scoping the store, internally bracing for the sight of Eddie's shorn head. The woman announced the final tally, looking expectantly at Ruth. Malcolm hurriedly proffered the funds, and the cashier did her best to hide her surprise.

Loaded down with bags, they stopped behind the cover of a suit rack.

"We should separate," Ruth suggested.

"Harry will kill me if I leave you."

"Don't worry, I'll take full responsibility. He can't kill me, I'm already dead." She fished a few items out of one of the bags that Malcolm was carrying and transferred them to the pockets of her tote bag. "It will be harder for them to track us if we go in different directions." She handed him one of the discs, and he reluctantly accepted it.

"We can't go back to the safe house," Malcolm whispered. "There's a restaurant that's near a place. I'll meet you there. Change your clothes and get on some sort of transportation. Leave the device there."

"Right, okay," she agreed, anxiously peering around his shoulder. "I might need some money."

Malcolm hastily took out his wallet and handed her a few notes. They stood for a moment staring at each other, shopping bags dangling from their hands.

"I'll take these," Malcolm offered, holding up the bags he was carrying. He stepped away and within seconds disappeared into the sea of shoppers.

Ruth remained frozen to the spot staring at the empty space where Malcolm had stood. Her mind stalled, unable to formulate a plan. Keep moving, stay in a crowd. She needed to breathe. Inhaling deeply, she walked out of the store. It was mid-afternoon on a weekday, but the mall was teeming with patrons; moms with prams, crying toddlers, teenagers. Ruth took advantage of the crowd and embedded herself in their midst. Gravitating to the upper promenade, she walked past metal trees covered with twinkling lights looking for service signs. She stopped in front of a jewellery store, her face directed at a tray of rings, eyes scanning the reflections in the glass as patrons sauntered past. The crowd cleared, and a figure from across the mall flashed in the window. Tall and thin, with a shock of dark hair. It was Mark Wilson. Her heart banged against her ribs, and her feet moved independent of her mind, taking her toward the escalator. She stopped again to look over the railing, making sure to stay surrounded by people. Giant orbs of light dangled from the ceiling, hampering her sightline to the other side. He could be anywhere. A commotion erupted at the top of the escalator; an argument over whether it was safe for a mother to take a pram on the moving stairs. Ruth took advantage of the confusion and slid through the crowd catching the escalator down to the ground floor. At the bottom, she feigned movement in one direction and then quickly reversed course, following the signs to the ladies' room. Inside the door, she stopped to collect herself. Shrill voices and the whirr of hand dryers reverberated off the tiles. A group of teenage girls stood around a mirror, talking loudly, lining their eyes with dark pencils. They leaned over the basin; midriffs exposed as they stood on their toes. Ruth squeezed through them, receiving a glare from a girl in a green fatigue jacket.

"Watch it, will ya?" the girl barked.

Ruth mumbled an apology.

The flimsy latch of the stall snapped shut, and Ruth wondered if she could hide within the metal walls forever. Fingers fumbling, she undressed, stripping off every piece of clothing that Anna had given her. The thud of a fist landed against the door, and Ruth jumped.

"How long are you going to be in there?"

A chorus of laughter erupted from the girls. Capture might be preferable to being stuck in a bathroom full of teenagers. Ruth ignored the voice and hurriedly opened packages, garments smelling of foreign factories but free of devices. She pulled out a black dress and knotted the sash. The turtleneck and tweed skirt were stuffed into the plastic store bags along with the grey overcoat, never to be seen again. Her hand hovered over the bowl of the toilet, tracking device held between her fingers. Flush it down and let it be gone forever. She changed her mind and tucked it into the pocket of the black coat. Her elbows banged against the sides of the cubicle as she opened the carryall and packed her new clothes inside. Putting on the black overcoat, she took a minute to run her fingers through her hair, gathering the courage to go back through the girls. She stepped out of the cubicle. The voices of the girls died down. Ruth walked over to the trash bin and stuffed the plastic bags into its swinging mouth. There was an authoritative tap to her boots, and her long black coat swished in her wake as she walked to a mirror. The girls stared at her with curiosity and Ruth sidled between them to the washbasin. She rinsed her hands with methodical diligence. She extracted a tube of lipstick from the bag and applied it to her lips, the splash of colour altering her appearance. A girl with pink hair jostled against Ruth; her cohorts sniggering in delight. She could not leave fast enough.

Back out in the mall, fragments of her confidence returned. Instead of a grey mouse, the shop windows reflected a black cat. Her spine straightened and she reclaimed a piece of her life. She was a spook. She only hoped that she cut a different figure from that of the woman who had walked into that washroom. Her mind cleared; the synaptic connections of her previous self slowly ignited. She walked through a set of glass doors and into the forecourt, the pavement slick beneath her boots. Taxis lingered by a newsstand. The roar of a train sounded overhead, and she glanced up at the tracks. The tube station was right next door. Find transportation and dump the device.

High pitched voices sounded around her as the gaggle of girls from the washroom noisily exited the mall. They stood on the pavement, annoyingly close to Ruth, their conversation liberally laced with profanities as they puffed on cigarettes. Ruth closed her eyes, her fingers curling around the tracking device in her pocket. She had to keep moving. The door flashed open and Mark Wilson appeared. Ruth tucked herself behind the newsstand, not wanting to attract attention with any sudden movement. Like a flock of birds, the girls moved as one toward the underground entrance. Leaving the protection of the newsstand, Ruth walked along with them. The girl with pink hair eyed her strangely.

The girls hovered around the card readers, hatching a plan on how they could buck the system. Remaining in their midst, Ruth gauged the distance between herself and Wilson. She looked back at the taxi rank. A wave of passengers poured out of the underground entrance creating a moment of chaos. The girls used the congestion as an opportunity to try and get through the turnstiles. Ruth bumped into the girl who wore the fatigue jacket.

"What is with you?" the girl snapped at Ruth.

"Sorry," Ruth apologised, her hand catching the girls arm to steady herself. Her hand hovered over one of the many pockets on the jacket, her fingers slipping discreetly inside.

One of the girls had managed to entangle herself in the turnstile, attracting the attention of a transit official. Ruth looked over her shoulder. Anticipating Ruth's moves, Wilson had taken a gamble and was already on the other side of the turnstile. Wilson had made a gamble and was now on the other side of the turnstile. She turned on her heels, shoulder bag banging madly against her wounded side, and ran as fast as she could toward the nearest taxi.


	9. Chapter 9

Gone were the days of clandestine meets, secret communiques whispered in the shadows of subterranean lots. The lights of the underground car park shone with the intensity of a supernova. Mirrors the size of moons gave warning of oncoming cars, defeating any chance of catching a target unawares. Security buttons were placed every few feet; monitors conspicuously protruding from the walls; concessions to safety but detrimental to espionage. A sign of the changing times, subterfuge was passe. If an act was committed brazenly in the open, no one could claim it was illegal. Not for the first time, Harry wondered if he was an anomaly in this new order, too old school to function in a world of cybercrime and digital enemies. Instinct told him, had been telling him for a while, that his era was waning; but he would leave of his own volition, there were a few grains left to slip through the glass. Hungry, in need of a coffee, he walked along the concrete levels, discreetly searching for a license plate. Keys jangling, a tuneless whistle on his lips, he gave every appearance of a patron who had forgotten where he had parked his car. The object of his search came into view; a black Mercedes, light reflecting off of the gleaming chrome and immaculate high gloss exterior. The key in his hand taunted him, his finger running over the jagged teeth; itching to drag it along the side of the car, marring its patrician perfection. Who would blame him, knowing what the owner had done. A dark blue Audi was parked beside it, still expensive but lacking the ostentation of its neighbour. He checked his mobile, more for the time than for messages, calculating the gap between his arrival and that of his mark. It wouldn't be long.

He kept his phone open, creating the illusion that he was absorbed in a message, but his mind floated away to a world of warmer thoughts, never a wise practise on a stakeout. He should have stayed with her, lain in bed to see her wake. Spent the morning talking, finding their way back to that moment when he said that he would live with her. He didn't know if that was possible if the chance had been lost, opportunity seeping into the cold ground along with the drops of her blood. She would blame him, and she would have every right, his effort to protect her had only served to drive a wedge between them and in the end had failed spectacularly. He would not admit that the idea of facing the personal was far more daunting than facing any enemy. But to touch her face in the morning, to see her before the sun, that would have been exquisite. He heaved a sigh. That idyll was for those who led ordinary lives. He needed to keep his actions within character, dispel any suspicion, maintain the appearance that he still believed that Ruth was dead. If he had called in sick, alarms would have sounded. He had never called in sick a day in his life. As it was, he had phoned in his excuses to Trevor, though had refrained from alerting his bodyguard of his exact location. One can't weave in and out of the shadows with a bodyguard in tow. His fingers curled around the phone as he contemplated how much longer he could keep the team in the dark. He had taken a chance in asking Callum to find the licence plate. Keen officer that he was, he had bombarded Harry with questions, only to be met with a wall of silence. The core of Harry's being warned him not to tell his secret. If he was the sole person who knew that Ruth was alive, then somehow she belonged only to him. Briefly, he had thought of bringing Dimitri along, using the younger man for intimidation, but he had shelved the idea. It was a matter of pride to see if he was still capable of menacing targets on his own. Ruth would be safe with Malcolm; level headed, always dependable, nothing would happen as long as she was in his care.

Footsteps echoed along the concrete floor, and Harry glanced up to one of the convex mirrors, using the security precaution to his advantage. The owner of the footsteps came into view, short, bespectacled, he carried a briefcase and wore a high-end coat. Harry jingled his keys together, pretending to search through the ring for the correct one. As the man passed by, he made eye contact with Harry and gave a cursory nod, thinking nothing of Harry's presence in the car park. The advantages of being a middle age man, completely unthreatening to any one of the same generation. The man aimed his fob at the car and there was a beep followed by the double click of the door latches opening. Installing his briefcase in the back seat, the man moved into the front. At the exact moment the man closed the driver side door, Harry slid into the passenger seat. The man looked at Harry with horror.

"What are you doing? Get out of my car."

The man reached for his mobile which he had placed on the console. Harry placed his hand over it, stopping the act.

"Doctor Anderson. You may not remember me."

"What is this about?" The doctor gave a worried glance, hastily looking behind him.

"A few weeks ago, just a few floors above our heads, you informed me that a colleague of mine was pronounced dead on arrival. Ruth Evershed."

The doctor's eyes grew wide, the seriousness of the situation dawning on him.

"It has come to my attention that you lied."

"This is ridiculous. I have no idea what you are talking about."

"I believe you do because you see Doctor Anderson, Miss Evershed is very much alive."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

" Someone told you to lie to me."

"There must have been a misunderstanding."

"Either they gave you a financial incentive," Harry padded the leather dashboard of the car, "Or their threat was a little more personal. Which was it?"

The doctor pressed his lips together.

"I'm from the Security Services, Doctor. I can shred your reputation with one phone call."

"Reputation?" the doctor scoffed. "That means nothing to me considering what they would do. I'd give that up in a heartbeat to save her. That's something you probably can't understand."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "You know nothing about me."

"Why should I believe you're from the Security Services? That's what they told me. They said no one could help me."

Harry kept his face blank, the doctor's information adding another layer to Ruth's claim that the people holding her were from Six. He picked up the man's mobile and keyed in a number. "This is a line to Thames House. I will protect you. You only need to call."

The doctor scanned Harry's face, drawn in by the calmness of his demeanour. Eyes heavy with worry, he had the look of a man desperate to rid himself of the weight of intimidation.

"They had pictures of my daughter. At school. They said they were going to take her away if I didn't do what they asked."

"Did they come to you in person?"

"They came before the Medevac arrived. Said it was a matter of national security."

"Can you describe them?"

"One was tall, thin, dark hair. And a shorter one, balding, a tattoo."

Harry thought back to the tube station and the man who was after Ruth. "And they were in this hospital?"

"Yeah, they were outside my office." Once the damn had broken, the doctor was prepared to spill it all. "I cleared everyone from the room. She was heavily sedated. They had their own medical team." He started to shake. "I'm sorry. I didn't know what to do."

The anger that Harry held toward the man was marginally abated; there was no victory in taking a pawn, even if the man had forsaken his Hippocratic Oath. He was after the bigger pieces.

"We'll get to the bottom of this." Harry tapped the mobile. "I promise that your daughter will be safe."

Harry hoisted himself out of the car. Wasting no time, the doctor backed out of his spot, the tyres of the Mercedes squealing as it peeled out of the lot. Harry gave the vehicle a glance over his shoulder as he walked away. He ran his hand over his face. He needed to shower and change, he could tidy up a bit at the Grid. But he couldn't go back there yet. He pulled out his mobile.

"Callum, I need you to run CCTV on the Royal, the day that Ruth died, specifically around the offices of Doctor Anderson." Harry inhaled deeply as the officer questioned his assignment. "Yes, it's another hunch. You'll just have to humour me." He walked toward the mouth of the car park. "And find out what school his daughter attends. See if you can post security there for the next few days." He entertained one last question. "No, I won't be back yet, I have another appointment."

.

It was a chair that he had sat in many times, he was the constant in the equation, the variable being the ever revolving position of Home Secretary. As he waited, Hary silently ran through the list of predecessors, studying Towers, arriving at the thought that this man may very well be the politician that would outlast him. His finger tapped impatiently on the arm of the chair as Towers spoke on the phone, seemingly oblivious to Harry's precious time. Harry levelled a stony look at the man, pouring all his mental energy into willing the politician off of the phone. Towers caught the look and quickly made an excuse to the party on the other end of the line. Towers cleared his throat and smoothed down his tie.

"Can't forget the constituents, can we?"

"Indeed, that's who we work for," Harry responded flatly, refusing to rise to Towers' attempt at convivial small talk.

The smile faded from Towers' face, replaced by a more serious demeanour. "Thank you for coming in, Harry."

"I need you to call off my security detail."

"I believe that decision was made by the DG."

"I'm sure he'll listen to your recommendation."

Towers hesitated, adding fuel to Harry's suspicion that Towers had been instrumental in assigning the minder.

"Do you think it's wise?"

"I can't do my job if I have a baby sitter."

"You're a manager, Harry, your job is behind a desk. You have to stop putting yourself in front of the bullet and let someone else take the hit."

Harry laced his fingers together on his stomach, inhaling a deep breath and swallowing his retort. "You called me in."

"Yes. It seems our friend Gavrik wants to leave the country."

"What?" Harry's control broke. "You're not going to let him, are you?"

Towers raised his hands signalling that the decision was out of his control."Apparently, there are some financial matters he needs to clear up."

"There's a Red Notice out on him."

"It's up to individual countries whether or not they want to enforce the notice. We're protecting him, and he's going to an overseas territory."

"I'll send a team with him."

"We're letting Six handle that."

"If its an overseas territory-"

"I'm not going to get into the semantics with you, Harry."

"Can you at least give me the destination?"

Towers placed his elbows on the table, a tight smile on his face. "Don't worry, it's all been taken care of."

Harry sat back in his chair, his lip curled with skepticism, incredulous that Towers thought he could keep information from the Head of Counterterrorism. There were only so many overseas territories. Knowing that his team could easily ferret out the destination, Harry decided on another tact.

"He hasn't given us any useful information. Chances are he'll never return. He's a murderer."

"To be fair, the woman was part of a plot to take down a British airliner and start a major international incident."

"Why are you bending over backwards for him?"

Towers leaned forward, his voice lowered with an urgent insistence. "He has oil, Harry, and money to invest in this country. Sometimes you have to lay down with the wolves."

"It's not a wolf," Harry pointed out, "It's a gigantic bear. It would be foolish for us to believe that he has completely severed ties with Russia."

"If you suspect wrongdoing, then bring me proof." Towers found his reading glasses and slipped them on his face. "Until then we will do our best to accommodate him."

Towers opened up a folder and concentrated on its contents. He refused to look at Harry, dismissing him with his silence. Biting back his exasperation, Harry walked out of the room, letting the thud of the door speak his displeasure.

.

Anger followed him, blazing brightly in his wake, stoked by his interaction with Anderson, fueled by Towers. The frost outside of Whitehall did nothing to temper the heat that roiled inside him. He stared out of the window of his taxi, mind on overdrive. What was he missing? His history with Gavrik was a quagmire of deceit and deception, complicated by a woman who had betrayed them both. The shared perfidy should have acted as a unifier, but he could never form an alliance with that man. Was prejudice clouding his vision? No, Gavrik was playing them, sitting in his mansion, while the government catered to his whims. It was the man's nature to deceive, and this was no exception. There must be a way to expose his game.

Harry's anger sat beside him on the short trip to Thames House, it followed him up the lift, it revealed itself on his face as he stepped through the pod doors. Erin stood beside Callum's desk, Dmitri on the phone. Senses on alert, they looked up as Harry walked in, their faces indicating they were well aware of the storm that had descended upon them.

"Briefing room. Now."

Harry did not witness the look that passed between Erin and Dimitri, or the panicked expression on Callum's face as he hurriedly collected his files. Harry sat down at the table, still in his overcoat, not bothering to remove his gloves. Before the team had properly settled in their chairs, he spoke.

"Gavrik is leaving the country."

"What?" Erin asked with the same level of incredulity that Harry had previously demonstrated.

"Apparently, his money and oil, or at least the promise of it, has taken away our government's spine."

"Where is he going?" Erin flipped open her notebook, ready for details.

"An overseas protectorate. Towers wouldn't divulge the information. So find it out."

"We'll get a team together," said Dimitri.

"No. It's been handed over to Six." Before the team could protest, Harry rounded on Callum. "Any hits on Mark Wilson?"

"Ah, no," Callum stuttered, caught off guard. "I haven't come across anyone by that name in the shared databases. That's not to say there isn't someone called that. Or it may be an alias."

"The men you identified as mercenaries - the car bomb aimed at Towers. Did we ever get them?"

"One of them was killed at the building where we found the fax alerting us to the identity of the bomber on the plane," Erin offered, trying to take some of the heat off of Callum.

"So there still could be some of them at large."

"Yes, but with Lavarov and Elena out of the picture, who is left to command them?"

"Surely, you all would keep going if I was taken out of commission," Harry pointed out.

"We'll address that when the time comes." Erin swept the subject aside.

"What about Tariq?" Harry continued. "Did we ever identify who killed him?"

"Not specifically," Callum conceded. "We got sidetracked with the woman that we thought was a CIA deniable who turned out to be Russian."

"So, there are still Russians running around, and maybe a rogue element from Six."

"What are you talking about Harry?" Erin asked. "What do you mean an element from Six?"

Harry sucked in his cheek, aware that he had almost tipped his hand. He looked around the table at his team, still so new, Dimitri the veteran at only two years. Still, they were all he had. If he couldn't trust them, there was no one else. The hand of paranoia rose and gripped his throat, halting the revelation of Ruth's resurrection. Trust no one. Paranoia was a slippery slope, a fine line between caution and conspiracy. He had witnessed colleagues fall down that well, never to return. Downplaying Erin's question, Harry diverted the conversation once again.

"Anything on the Royal?"

"I haven't had a chance," said Callum.

Harry pounded his fist on the table. "Then what have you been doing?"

"Harry," Erin cautioned. "We're working in the dark here."

Callum shuffled the files that sat in front of him, looking for the opportunity to redeem himself. "You'll be happy to know I did some further digging on Everton Price."

"And…?"

"Nothing improper, although something caught my eye. A rather large donation to his last campaign by a group called Better Britain."

"Don't tell me, they're a right-wing fringe group."

"No, they seem to be on the up and up, trying to make life better for everyday people. Literacy programs, food drives, the like."

"Nothing wrong with that," Dmitri commented.

"Except sitting on their board is one Ariadne Kolos."

Harry had completely forgotten about the woman. He nodded thoughtfully as he considered the information. "So she's using Better Britain to funnel money to Everton Price."

"And her company PensaFerra can influence policy," Callum confirmed. "Especially since Price is sitting on the Foreign Investment Committee." He waited expectantly for a sign of validation from his boss.

Harry tapped his gloved finger on the table, his mood elevating, a break in the clouds, his thoughts in the car park coming back to him. A deed done in the open is not illegal, especially when laws are created to hide the crime. "And do we know a foreigner who wants to invest in this country?"

"You think there's a connection between Kolos and Gavrik?" Erin continued the thread of Harry's semi-rhetorical question.

"We need to find out what Gavrik is up to before he leaves the country."

"What aren't you telling us, Harry?" Erin asked.

Before he could answer, the mobile in his pocket chimed. "Yes," he barked into the device. He closed his eyes, not wanting to reveal his surprise at the caller's identity. "Where are you now?" he lowered his voice. "I'll be right there."

Without any explanation, Harry rose from the table, leaving his team confused and still in the dark.

.

The wheels of the taxi rubbed against the kerb as Harry motioned for the driver to stop. It was a block away from his intended destination, and he remained in the vehicle scanning the street. The day had offered him no break to return home and pick up his own vehicle and he didn't want to be chauffeured by a company car. The anonymity that the taxi provided worked to his advantage. He took his time, slowly handing over the fare to the driver. It was a residential street, providing little in the way of cover, a man loitering in the area might attract attention. A figure wearing a familiar flat cap stepped out from a row of hedges. Adding an extra note for a tip, Harry left the vehicle. The taxi sped off, passing Malcolm as he scurried along the pavement.

"What happened?" Harry asked, forgoing any sort of greeting.

"She wanted to get a dress."

"A dress?" Harry's mouth hung open as he wrapped his mind around the explanation. "Are you telling me you left the security of the safe house to get a dress?"

"She was very insistent," Malcolm added in his defence.

Harry shook his head. "Where is she?"

"I came by myself."

"You left her?" Harry asked in disbelief.

"We each took a device and then went separate ways. We were trying to confuse them."

Harry massaged the lines of his brow, pushing one more piece of information into his already overburdened brain. "Is she coming back here?"

"No, I told her to rendezvous at a place near EC8."

Harry searched his memory for the coordinates, the location of the property dawning on him; a place that only he and Malcolm would know. "Why did you come back here?"

"I wanted to see if they had taken my equipment."

Harry opened his mouth, about to explain that Ruth was far more important than any equipment, but the look on Malcolm's face told him that value was in the eye of the beholder. "We can't stay out on the street. We'll attract attention."

Malcolm fell into step as Harry briskly strode toward the house, talking as they walked. "I've been here for a few minutes. I haven't seen anyone come in or out."

They moved through the gate and up the steps. Reaching the top step, they saw that the door was still ajar. Harry paused and considered his options.

"Should we call for some backup?" Malcolm whispered.

"I'm not sure who I would call," Harry responded wryly.

Placing a gloved hand on the flat of the door, Harry slowly pushed open the panel. He cautiously stepped inside, Malcolm following close behind. He held up his hand for Malcolm to wait, and they stood in the hallway, listening intently to the sounds of the house. Everything remained quiet. Malcolm gave a nod in the direction of the kitchen, and Harry continued on down the hall. On the kitchen table beside two cardboard coffee cups sat the laptop, face down, half open, scratches like claw marks running over the exterior. Malcolm rushed over to it.

"Good Lord, what have they done." He righted the machine and quickly typed in the password. The screen glowed to life. "There's been no intrusion. They weren't able to crack the encryption. I suspect they were trying to extract the hard drive."

"Why not take the entire laptop?"

Malcolm rubbed his finger over the empty USB port. "Because that's not what they wanted."

Treating the area like a crime scene, Harry gingerly moved the coffee cups aside with one gloved hand, revealing a paper bag. Black ink was scrawled across its surface, words in a spidery hand.

_We have her. Give us Gavrik__._

"Shit," Harry cursed.

"What is it?" Malcolm asked. Harry showed him the note. "What do we do?"

The muscle in Harry's throat tightened, the vein at his temple throbbed, frustration clawing at his skin. He had left Ruth in Malcolm's care and he had lost her. His fingers curled wanting to grab the man by the collar and shake him, make him understand that he had only found the woman a few hours ago and the thought of losing her again was soul crushing. His breath came short in his chest as he saw the vast cavern of depression opening up before him again. No, he would not return to that fugue state. Malcolm waited for him, his expression free of malice, looking to Harry as he always had for the answer. Patience, loyalty, it radiated from his tweed cap down to his polished shoes; the old guard. Harry had known Malcolm for over a decade, operations in and outside the law, a trove of secrets shared. He was not alone, sliding off the cliff of paranoia, he could always trust this former spook. He placed a hand on Malcolm's arm, taking strength from his old friend.

"Gather up your stuff. We'll go to the rendezvous point and take it from there."


	10. Chapter 10

The air inside the restaurant was thick with the accumulated memory of year upon year of all-day breakfasts. The smell of fried eggs and bacon grease permeated the weave and clung to the fabric of all those who entered. Ruth sat alone in a worn vinyl booth, shoulders hunched, nursing a cold coffee, close enough to the window to survey the street, yet far enough removed to avoid detection from passing traffic. She debated ordering another cup of coffee but decided she was already functioning on one frayed nerve, any more caffeine and she would out jump a cat. A pain shot through her side, a mixture of the wound and hunger. Unable to order food, the last of her money spent on the taxi, her fingers rummaged in her bag for a small plastic bottle and shook out two tablets. She popped the paracetamol into her mouth, grimacing as she washed them down with the tepid coffee. She tapped the side of the mug, reflecting on her options, calculating how much longer she should wait. Two men sat by the window, dressed in work boots and overalls, language peppered with epithets, going or coming from work she couldn't tell. The waitress, strands of grey slipping from a hairnet, wiped down the counter with the slow thoroughness of years at the task. Her eyes gravitated towards Ruth, her mouth pulled in a thin line of disapproval. Ruth looked away and gave herself a reason for extending her stay by picking up an ancient vinyl bound menu. Decorated with a mosaic of grease stains and coffee marks, she stared unseeingly at the choices. The paracetamol taking effect, the hunger and pain subsided, replaced by a sinking feeling; it had been over an hour since she had left the mall, something must have happened to Malcolm. Closing her eyes, she searched for a plan. Where could she go if Malcolm didn't meet up with her? She would phone Harry, obviously. Of course, there was a way out, she wasn't totally stranded.

"I recommend the Spanish omelette."

Ruth's eyes flew open. On the seat across from her, sat Harry. He removed his gloves, pulling the leather from each finger with a terse snap as he levelled a look of disapproval in her direction. Her initial wave of relief gave way to trepidation.

"Where's Malcolm?"

"He's fine." Harry casually extracted a menu from between the serviette holder and the condiment tray and glanced at the fare. "We've got another place lined up. There won't be any provisions there, so you had better eat something."

She stared at him over her menu, stunned by his lack of concern for her. "I'm also fine, thank you for asking."

Harry leaned forward, hands gripping the menu with tightly controlled anger. He half turned the menu, using it as a blind to shield their conversation. "What were you thinking?" he hissed at her.

"I'm sorry," she stuttered, perplexed by his anger, expecting that he would greet her with words of comfort instead of censure. "I thought I could get something-"

"It was reckless," he angrily cut off her explanation, "Incredibly dangerous and against my orders."

"Orders?" she echoed, her mouth remaining open in a circle of disbelief. "You may recall, I don't work for you anymore. In fact-"

"Damn it, Ruth." His fist fell on the table with a soft thud. "There are people after you. We don't know how far they will go. You can't take chances like that."

A shadow fell across the table. The waitress stood at the ready, a cup of coffee in one hand. Harry sat back, making room on the table for the beverage. Ruth retreated in her seat and concentrated on the menu, silently seething. The waitress pulled out her yellowing order pad.

"Same as usual, Harry," she asked in a chipper voice.

Harry folded his menu and slipped it back behind the napkin holder. "Sure." He gave the waitress a benevolent smile.

Ruth glared at him beneath heavy lids.

"And you?" The waitress turned to Ruth, a motherly smile replacing her previous look of disapproval.

Having not entirely concentrated on the menu, Ruth took a breath as she hastily constructed her order.

"She'll have a Spanish omelette," Harry answered on her behalf. "And some more coffee."

Ruth opened her mouth to protest, but the waitress had already turned on her heels and headed to the kitchen. Relenting, Ruth folded up her menu and slid it into place alongside the other one. Harry opened a packet of creamer and poured it into his coffee, the spoon clinking testily against the side of the china. Why were they always at such odds?

"If you're going to be angry with me, I can just leave."

The spoon stilled. Harry tapped it against the rim of the mug and then set it down on the table, lips pursed, holding back one set of words, exchanging them for another. "We need to be careful," he calmly whispered."We don't know who we are dealing with." He reached across the table and took her hand.

Surprised by the gesture, Ruth stiffened in her seat, her cold skin unaccustomed to touch. His hand was large, but his grip was gentle. She had studied his hands on many occasions, fingers laced, gripping a phone, holding a scotch, occasions when her fingers had grazed against them, imagining them on hidden parts of her skin. His thumb caressed the top of her hand, and her shoulders eased as she gave herself permission to enjoy the sensation. It was allowed here, off the Grid, away from eyes, on this other plane where they now existed. The motion served to massage away her residual anger.

"I'm sorry," she said in appeasement. "I just wanted to be myself again."

Lines creased his forehead as he studied her. "Who were you before?"

Unable to properly explain the workings of her existential dilemma, she shrugged her shoulders. "A ghost, I guess."

"We're not ghosts." He gave her a conspiratorial smile. "Not yet."

Before she could ask him to explain his cryptic comment, the waitress arrived with a pot of coffee. Harry released her hand and sat back. A fresh cup was poured for Ruth, the steam rising, and she thankfully wrapped her hands around the mug.

"Are you alright?" Harry asked.

"I'm just cold. I haven't been able to properly warm up."

"We'll get you settled into the new place."

"How many safe houses do you have?" She sipped the bitter coffee, one eyebrow raised in mock query.

Ignoring the question, Harry pulled out his mobile. "We don't have much time."

They never had time.

The waitress returned, two plates in her hands, an omelette for Ruth, and an artery stopping fare for Harry. Ruth dove into the omelette not realising the full extent of her hunger until she started chewing.

"Everything okay," Harry asked, a bottle of brown sauce poised in his hand.

"This is great," she begrudgingly conceded through a mouthful of food.

"You see, sometimes I do know what's best for you."

She looked away, refusing to admit that he may be right. They ate in silence, forks scraping against the plates. Harry shifted in his seat, his foot accidentally bumping against hers, an apology mumbled. She pulled her foot away with her own apology, the dance of distance maintained, the earlier hand holding forgotten, one step forward, two steps back.

The meal finished, Harry tossed some notes on the table, leaving a generous tip. Ruth studied the money noting how he and Malcolm had paid with cash. Always untraceable. She shimmied out of the booth, adjusting the bag over her shoulder as Harry collected his gloves. Her eyes wandered over to the window. A man stood on the other side of the road, staring directly into the restaurant. Before she had time to thoroughly register his presence a van drove past. When the vehicle had cleared, the space was empty, leaving her to wonder if there had actually been a man or if it was her imagination. It was her state of heightened paranoia, she cautioned. Though she was unseasoned in the field, she had taken nothing for granted, meticulous in her cleaning route, certain that she had lost her tail.

Harry held open the glass door and she walked before him out onto the pavement. In the cold, her breath formed tiny clouds, a scattering of snowflakes trying their best to create a storm without much success. Harry had not bothered to button up his overcoat, the tails flapping as he walked along. Ruth drew hers tighter around her torso, amazed that he did not feel the cold. Slush had turned to ice, and a layer of frost coated spots on the pavement. Harry, as sure in his step as he was in his convictions, walked along without a second thought to the hazards. Ruth, gingerly placed her feet on the ground, unsure of the tread of her new boots. They walked in the direction of a busier intersection.

"It's a few blocks away," Harry informed her. "I'll get us a taxi."

Ruth stepped aside to allow him access to the kerb. Her foot landed on a patch of ice and the sole of her boot slid along without her. Arms flailing, she tried to maintain her balance. Harry reached out and caught her elbow, his other hand gripping her around her waist.

"Steady there," he murmured.

Hands searching for anything to latch onto, she grabbed onto the lapel of his overcoat. She held the fabric between her fingers, her heart thudding at the near fall. Keeping his hand around her waist, he looked down at her. She made no move to step away, but let herself sink into the moment. This was how he should have greeted her – gathering her into his arms, enfolding her in a protective embrace. The air between them warmed, their breath mingled in a combined cloud, and she looked up into his eyes. There was no anger, only softness. Pedestrians continued by, traffic moved along, yet still they stood. Creatures of the shadows brazenly standing in the open. Her eyes fell to his lips, her mouth parting in a silent signal to him. Her fingers curled tighter around his lapel. Her body stiffened and the air instantly cooled. Beneath the pad of her finger, she felt something hard and round. Please, let it be nothing more than a button.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

With a furtive look over her shoulder, she grabbed his hand and pulled him next to a shop, then decided better, and took a few steps around the corner into an alcove. Ignoring his questions, she flipped back the lapel of his overcoat. Hidden near the seam was a small metal disc. Picking at the fabric, she carefully scraped it off with her fingernails. She held it up to him, eyes wide with horror.

"It's the same device that was on me."

Harry took the device from her hand and examined it. "Are you sure?"

She nodded. "How would they get it on you?"

"I don't know."

"Please don't say that we have to split up." She almost cried at the thought.

"No, you're staying with me." He firmly took her hand in his gloved one. "They know that we're here. It was lucky that we found it before we compromised another safe house." Harry scanned the end of the street as he formulated a plan. "Better not take any chances. We have to lose them."

Tired from running, morale plummeting, she was quickly losing optimism. "I don't think we'll ever be free."

His grip tightened on her hand and he tugged her closer. "Don't say that."

Ruth let herself be pulled behind Harry as he strode out of the alcove. Without looking left or right, he walked to the edge of the pavement and extended his arm, flagging down a cab. When one pulled up, he opened the door and Ruth climbed into the back seat. Harry climbed in beside her and gave the driver an address. Eyes closed, Ruth slumped in the seat, no idea where they were going, giving herself over. After a few blocks, they pulled up in front of a shop and Harry paid the driver. As they hurried into the shop, Ruth barely had the chance to look at the sign over the door. She was instantly hit by the musty smell of ancient cardboard and pressed vinyl. Harry walked purposefully down the aisle, weaving his way between bins and stands of records. The sleeves of long-forgotten LPs brought back memories to Ruth of teenage crooners and scratchy turntables.

"You looking for anything in particular, Harry."

A man approached them from behind a counter, long grey hair tied back, wearing a floral shirt.

"Jerry," Harry nodded in greeting. He pulled an album out of a bin, and placed the tracking device on top of it, hiding the nature of the interaction. "I'm looking for the owner of this."

The man took the device."Are we looking at a domestic label?"

"Possible import."

"Let me see what I have in the back."

The novelty of the interaction had piqued Ruth's curiosity, her former malaise deserting her, replaced by her usual inquisitive nature. Did Harry know everyone in this neighbourhood? They followed the man past stacks of old albums, into a storeroom. In complete contrast to the front of the shop, the room was crammed with flickering screens and cannibalised desktop towers, all the trappings of the digital age. The man peered in one box after another, pulling them from a metal shelf until he arrived at the one he was looking for.

"Ah hah," he exclaimed with the excitement of a child. "I haven't seen one of these in years." He held up a similar looking device. "It's Israeli."

"Mossad?" Harry asked, surprised by the information.

"Possibly," Jerry conceded. "Doesn't mean it was from an active agent. Tech passes between many hands these days."

"We were carrying it live. They'll probably track it here. Can you dispose of it?"

"No problem."

"You know, my offer of employment still stands."

Jerry chuckled. "No thank you, I make better money from people looking to maintain their privacy from government intrusion."

"We don't use unauthorised surveillance on citizens."

"Sure, Harry, sure." The man gestured toward a door. "You might want to take advantage of the back exit."

Harry took Ruth's elbow and guided her towards the door.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"Trust me."

Opening the door, he gave her a look. Her eyes met his with an answer. Implicitly.

The back exit of the shop emptied onto an alley and Harry followed the narrow lane, rounding the corner coming out near the entrance of a tube station. Using cash, nothing traceable, aware of surveillance, Harry purchased two tickets and handed her one. No words were needed, no instructions given, as she mirrored his actions and stepped up to the ticket barrier, inserting paper, walking in unison through the machine. They reached the platform and stood waiting, face to face, looking over each other's shoulders. The platform echoed with the sounds of the previous evening, a sense of coming full circle, a fear rising in her that this time circumstance would cleave them and they would be separated. Biting her lip, she looked down the track, willing the train to come. Fate was listening, and a train barrelled through the tunnel, pulling into the station. The mid-afternoon commute was not as harried as the evening, and they easily made their way onto a car. They stood holding onto the straps, bodies brushing against each other as the train lurched forward. They did not separate but remained close.

Harry leant down to her ear. "Man in the next car. He's following us. Do you recognise him?"

Ruth half turned, covertly looking into the adjoining carriage. "No. But there was a third man. I heard his voice but I never saw him. What are we going to do?"

"Get out at the next station."

She nodded, subtly moving closer to him, taking strength from his proximity. Harry looked back through the window to the adjoining car, focused on the threat. She, on the other hand, focused on his throat, the dusting of stubble growing on his chin, the faint musk of his skin reaching her nostrils, telling her he that had not showered. The man that stood before her was all that mattered. If she didn't look back, the man in the next carriage did not exist.

The next station was announced, and Ruth stirred. Harry placed a hand on her arm, shaking his head, telling her to wait. The train slowed as it pulled into the station, moving in counterpoint to Ruth's accelerating heartbeat. The doors opened, but Harry remained still, his face impassive, giving her no clue as to his intent. Seconds ticked by, stretching out into minutes. Another announcement and the doors hissed as they prepared to close. Ruth relaxed; she must have misheard, Harry had meant the next station. As the doors were released from their mechanisms, Harry let go of the strap and took a step, leaving Ruth frozen in surprise. He grabbed her by the sleeve and pulled her behind him. Her feet stumbled over each other as her body realised what was happening. With only millimetres to spare, they slid through the doors, metal grazing her coat. Pulled from behind, she was stopped short, unable to move. A strangled gasp left her throat as she realised her shoulder bag was caught in the door. Harry had turned back to her with a look of consternation, questioning her delay. Overcome by panic, she tugged at the bag, unable to free her arm from the handle, thoughts of being carried along with the train flashing through her mind. She stared at Harry, wild-eyed. His fingers pulled at the strap but he was unable to break it. The train door disengaged and opened, allowing her the opportunity to remove the bag. Stunned, she pulled it free, and Harry grabbed her hand, yanking her away from the train. Shaking, she quickly walked alongside Harry down the length of the platform, praying that the extra seconds had not given their tail time to leave the train. As the cars sped by, curiosity overcame her, and Ruth looked into the passing windows. The man who had been following them stood at the door, hand against the glass, watching them as the train left the station.

"We have to catch the next train back," Harry told her.

Unable to speak, she nodded. One step forward, two steps back.

.

The lens of the security camera stared down from the pockmarked brick, the modern piece of equipment standing out against the crumbling facade of the building. Ruth looked directly up into its sights, unflinching, wanting to be recognised. Harry pressed the intercom button and within seconds the main door was unlocked. A rickety cage of a lift deposited them on the third floor of the converted warehouse. She followed Harry down the hall, feet scuffing along a worn carpet, past cracked walls and broken lights, a definite downgrade from her last residence. This, it would seem, was her new normal, moving from safe house to safe house, pursued by unknown agents, all her worldly belongings in one shoulder bag. Her mouth opened in silent desperation, longing for a book, a cat, a bill with her address on it, all the things she had taken for granted. There must be a way she could return to her old flat. Harry stopped at a door and rapped three times. She schooled her face, replacing her look of dejection with a neutral mask. The door was open by Malcolm.

"Thank God, you're alright."

Venetian blinds dangled at haphazard angles, slats missing, barely hiding dirty windows, pieces of yellowed newspaper covering the panes underneath. Like the record store, there was a pervasive smell of must and closeness, a place forgotten in time. The furniture reminded her of a doctor's office she had once been in as a child; her orange turtleneck and tweed skirt would have fitted in perfectly with the decor. On the plus side, there was a wide assortment of anglepoise lamps. One sat on the table were Malcolm had set up his equipment.

"I managed to salvage the laptop. It seems to be free of any malware," he informed them. "Unfortunately, they got the USB stick."

"What USB?" Harry asked.

"No, they didn't." Ruth patted her side, having sequestered the thumb drive in her bandage once again. "I didn't want to leave it behind."

"Clever move," Malcolm commended her.

"Are you going to bring me in on this," Harry asked, "Or is it just for you two?"

"They gave me a USB stick full of Gavrik's information from Kaspgaz. It's a pretty concise compendium of Gavrik's finances."

"Once I got through a few firewalls," Malcolm carried on with the explanation, "We were able to uncover two accounts; one in his wife's name and one under the son. They both hold a significant amount of money."

"Money that he might not be able to access due to the fact that he murdered his wife," Ruth added.

"Sasha has an account?" Harry took a moment to digest all the information. "Are these accounts in London?"

"No, Turks and Caicos."

"Of course," Harry gave out a derisive huff. "Our friend Gavrik has just requested permission to leave the country."

"You're not going to let him are you?" Ruth demanded.

Harry raised his hands in sarcastic defeat. "They've taken it out of my hands. Six is looking after it."

Ruth walked toward the window as she ordered her thoughts. "Obviously, he needs this money for whatever he's planning, or maybe he needs to hide its provenance. If we can prove that the money is laundered, it could be seized under the Proceeds of Crime Act."

"Can you get in and see where the money originates?" Harry directed the question at Malcolm.

"I've been poking about, I'm surprised they haven't sensed my presence already."

"But could you?"

"I need more time."

"We may not have time." Harry rubbed his forehead. "If Gavrik gets his hands on the money it may insulate him from prosecution and then we'll never know what he was really up to."

"I could work faster if I had a hard link into their system," Malcolm proposed.

Half listening to the two men, Ruth idly picked up a cassette tape from the coffee table and turned it over in her hand, her mind sorting through options. She glanced at the title - Led Zeppelin. She really had stepped back in time. If she could travel into the past, she could travel anywhere.

"What if we went there?" she mused aloud, half to herself.

"That's not possible," Harry countered. "It's not Five's jurisdiction. Towers effectively ordered me to stay away."

"That doesn't mean Malcolm and I can't go."

"That's impossible." Harry shook his head emphatically.

"Why not? I don't work for Five anymore. In fact, I'm dead. You can't get any more deniable than that."

"You'd have no backup."

"I'd have Malcolm."

"Um, well," Malcolm half raised his hand, trying to insert himself into the conversation that was quickly spinning off in an unforeseen direction.

"That's not the sort of back up I meant," Harry let out an exasperated breath.

"We could go to the bank in person, open an account," she directed her plan at Malcolm, hoping her enthusiasm would engender his support. "Get you into the system."

"We would need a bit of capital to pull it off," Malcolm ventured, swayed by her scheme.

"Stop!" Harry bellowed, holding up his hands. He turned on Ruth with a glare. "You are not leaving the country. Do you understand?"

Ruth blinked, her spine straightening, shocked at the fierceness of his tone. How dare he tell her what to do? Had her words in the restaurant been completely lost on him? She was a ghost, lacking any sort of self-determination, hovering on the fringe of existence. She wanted her life back. Her fingers curled around the plastic of the cassette case, quelling the impulse to throw it at the man. She took a step toward Harry, her voice low and terse.

"They will keep chasing me, Harry. Whether for the USB stick or for the information that I have in my head. They're never going to let us rest, you know that. I can't stay holed up in safe houses forever. I am going to find out what's going on. I'm tired of someone else pulling the strings. Aren't you?"

Harry's eyes narrowed. He was an intelligent man, he understood the deeper meaning to her words, an allusion not only to the unknown hand that had played with their lives but also his attempts to control her. His shoulders sagged and he took a deep breath.

"Before we entertain the idea of leaving the country, let's exhaust other avenues. I have to sort some things out. Don't do anything until I get back."

"You're leaving?" Ruth asked in disbelief. They were on the precipice of a breakthrough, the nascent stage of a plan, they needed to work together.

Harry spoke to Malcolm as he made his way toward the door. "There was a tracking device on me. Possibly Israeli in origin. Similar to the one on Ruth."

"Good Lord. How did they get it on you?"

"I don't know. I'm trying to think of when someone would have had an opportunity." Harry tipped his head and lowered his voice. " It could have been when I had dinner with Ariadne Kolos. I have to check that out."

"Ariadne?" Ruth interjected. "Who's Ariadne?"

Hand on the doorknob, Harry paused before he opened it. "I may know another way in. We'll talk more about this when I return." He levelled a gaze at Ruth. "Don't do anything foolish while I'm gone."

"Wait a minute!" Ruth hurried to the door, her voice straining in an unsuccessful attempt to halt his exit. "Who's Ariadne?"

The draft of the closing door stirred her hair and she stood staring at the peeling panel, baffled that Harry had departed in such haste. He had left without a proper goodbye, without some sort of gesture of farewell. Granted, neither of them were ones for overt displays of affection, but at least they could have shared a moment of connection, an agreement of commitment to the same goal. Driven by an idea that he had not seen fit to share, he had totally forgotten about her. She was no stranger to that sort of behaviour, she had seen him consumed by his obsession before, his single-minded pursuit of Jim Coaver was a testament to that. And he was still consumed by Gavrik. If she were truthful, she would admit that she was the same, latching onto a theory, compelled to see it to its conclusion. It had been the driving force behind her investigation into Mik Maudsley and look how that had ended up. She had learned from that experience. This time she would do it right.

Malcolm stood by the laptop, sharing Ruth's puzzlement over Harry's abrupt departure. He raised an eyebrow, looking to her for guidance.

"I need a passport," she said without preamble.

"Harry warned us not to do anything foolish."

"Flights leaving from Heathrow," she carried on, listing tasks on her fingers. "Accommodation. What kind of tech do you need?"

Finding it hard to resist Ruth's determined manner, Malcolm sat down and started to make a list. Ruth took the seat beside him and looked directly into his face.

"Who is Ariadne?"


	11. Chapter 11

A_/N - Time got away from me but I hope this chapter makes up for it. I promise to be more faithful with my updates. Thank you once again for reading!_

* * *

A fresh-faced parliamentary intern leaned against the wall, daydreaming of a life outside the boredom of a corridor in Whitehall. The sound of footsteps echoed down the hall, and he quickly stood to attention. Harry gave the young man a curt nod of greeting and then gestured to the dark panelled door. The intern waved Harry through with a motion of caution, reminding him to be discreet. The committee room was airless, filled with the immovable heat of poor ventilation and pompous speech. In the cramped space, attendees were scattered about the chairs, barely taking up the three rows of seats. A few heads turned as Harry quietly took a seat in the back row. It would appear that there was little outside interest in the Committee on Foreign Audit and Accounting. Lacking any sort of glamour or prestige, the meeting had not even made it into the top line of scheduled events; Callum had to dig to even find its existence. Everton Price, Chair of the Committee, sat with his arms crossed, head nodding slightly as a fellow minister droned on with a rambling question. Harry searched his mind for the title of the parliamentarian; finally settling on the name Talbot. At the front of the room, a blonde head nodded, understanding the question and parsing it down. Ariadne Kolos leant forward as she spoke into the microphone.

"It is entirely within the law to hold a foreign bank account."

"Is there a case where you might use one for illegal purposes?" Talbot inquired.

"I would never use one for illegal purposes." Ariadne paused as the room gave a small laugh. "But some might use it for tax evasion, or to hide the origin of the funds."

Everton Price stirred, the laughter rousing him as if a cue to speak. "So would you say it would be better to keep the money in the country."

"Yes, it would be beneficial to keep the capital in Britain."

"Is there any way to track foreign investment in the country?" Price asked.

"Not really. That's why I would endorse the proposal to ease regulations on any foreign financial institutions hoping to set up shop here, as an incentive for them to share their data."

"By foreign you mean Russian," Talbot interjected.

Price cleared his throat. "I've been informed that we are overdue for a break. We'll convene again in one hour."

He gave a half-hearted bang of the gavel and the attendees rose, the low murmur of voices filling the room. Harry hovered near the door, waiting to catch Ariadne's attention. His eyes narrowed as she approached Price, the man frowning, her hand on his arm as she spoke to him. Price spotted Harry, and Ariadne followed his gaze. She smiled in recognition, excused herself from Price and walked over to Harry.

"Harry, how nice to see you."

"My apologies for last night. Perhaps we could have a moment now."

"Let me grab my bag."

They stepped out of the room, Ariadne recommending a coffee shop around the corner where they could chat. Midway down the hall, Harry stopped in front of a door and cut the conversation short.

"This is my colleague, Callum Reed."

Until that moment Callum had been invisible, part of the woodwork of the corridor, but at Harry's voice he stood up straight, tablet in hand, no folders for him, a tight smile on his face. "How do you do?"

"What's this about, Harry?"

Harry opened the door and gestured into the room. "Let's have a little chat in here, shall we?"

"I don't understand," Ariadne hedged.

"It will only take a moment."

The woman relented and preceded the two men into the room. Dark brown walls gave the room an element of claustrophobia, there was barely space for a small round table. Harry motioned for Ariadne to take a seat, while he remained standing, keeping authority in his court.

"Do I need a lawyer," she asked half-jokingly.

"Only if you've done anything illegal," Harry answered. "You haven't done anything illegal, have you?"

"Of course not."

Harry nodded to Callum and the young man sat down, opening up the screen on his tablet. "We've been looking into the finances of Better Britain. Have you heard of them?"

"Yes," Ariadne answered.

"PensaFarrow is on the board. Correct?"

"I believe so."

"Better Britain donated to the campaign of Everton Price." Callum tipped his head. "Charities are not allowed to support political parties."

"It's a nonprofit; the rules aren't as stringent as they are for charities."

"Do you know how Better Britain raises its funds?" Harry asked.

"Fundraisers, small donors, corporations."

Callum turned the tablet around in Ariadne's direction. "Here is a list of some of the companies. All above board right? Until you dig a little deeper. This one links to an offshore account."

"Like I said in Committee," Ariadne gave a smile, showing her infinite patience for the two men not versed in finance. "There is nothing illegal about offshore accounts."

"Except this account belongs to a Russian national. Meaning foreign money was being funnelled into a domestic campaign."

Harry crossed his arms. "I'm sure non-profits fall under campaign finance law."

The smile fell from Ariadne's face and her eyes darted back and forth between the two men. "I had no idea of any of this."

"Does the name Ilya Gavrik mean anything to you?" Harry closed in on the table, forcing Ariadne to look up at him.

"I've heard of him but I've never had any dealings with him. "

"I found it very interesting that Price called for a break just as a question was being asked about Russia. Do you think he knows where the money for his campaign came from?"

"I don't know. Harry, you have to believe me. If PensaFarrow has done anything illegal you can expect my full cooperation."

Harry weighed her words on the scale of truth. Perhaps she was only the middle link in the chain, unaware of what was being pulled along behind her. He could break her and toss her away or use her as a wedge. Refrain from direct accusation and give her an opening. A mole in the financial sector was always beneficial.

"Your company is giving testimony that would shape future financial legislation while it has close ties to a nonprofit funded by foreign money." Harry placed his hand on the table and leaned down toward the woman. "Do you see a conflict there?"

"Yes, of course."

"So I would suggest that you go back into that committee room, recuse yourself as a witness, and tell them that foreign finance needs greater scrutiny especially Russian investment."

With a terse nod, Ariadne gave her silent agreement.

"We might need to call on your expertise in the near future. I hope we can count on you. Callum will be joining you when you return to committee. As moral support." Harry leaned over and whispered in her ear. "I don't think we'll be having dinner again."

He left the room.

.

Rays from the setting sun filtered through the network of metal grills that covered the window, casting faint patterns on the tiled floor. From one cloistered room to another. Harry sat, his leg subtly bouncing with agitation, muscles yearning to stretch, lungs missing fresh air. Beside him sat Erin, a manila folder in her lap, the epitome of patience. Her head dipped in the direction of Harry's leg. He ceased his bouncing, the stillness revealing a small stain on his trousers. Coffee, he surmised. He rubbed it gently with his thumb hoping that no one else had noticed the stain. He only needed to make it through this meeting, then he could shower and change and continue on to the place where he wanted to be. Finally, the door was opened and the subject of the meeting entered the room. Sasha walked over to the table and sat down. He made a motion to lean his cane on the table but thought the better of it and set it against his chair instead. Harry inhaled, digging down into the recesses of his constitution, pulling out one last drop of energy. His eyes met a stony stare.

"Why are you here?" Sasha asked.

"I'm here to offer you redemption."

Harry gave a nod to Erin, handing the meeting over to her. Placing the folder on the table, she opened it, displaying the contents to Sasha.

"This is a release signing over your share of Sobol holdings."

"Why would I do that?" he scoffed.

"The Crown would see it as an act of cooperation and take it into consideration during sentencing."

"You're asking me to buy justice?" Sasha asked. "Every time I see you I learn how much our countries have in common."

Harry pursed his lips, swallowing the bile that rose in his mouth. He loathed this sort of perverted justice, one law for the rich and one for the poor. It didn't matter, the end justifies the means. Ignoring Sasha's quip, he turned to Erin. "What's the violent incident report out of Wormwood Scrubs these days."

"Fifty a day, a least four serious stabbings-"

"Why would I give you my money." Sasha cut her off, understanding the direction of the conversation.

"You can either give it to us, or your father is going to take it."

The young man sat up in his chair.

"As we speak," Harry continued, "He is taking steps to obtain it. And then he will invest it in this country and make a life for himself while you rot in jail."

"You're not buying justice," Erin picked up the conversation. "You're helping to bring your father to justice."

Harry raised his hands, signalling that Sasha's final decision made no difference to him. "We are going to find out where this money originated, and if it's connected to any sort of criminal activity it will be confiscated and you will have squandered an opportunity."

"You could tell us where the money comes from," Erin prompted, fishing for information.

"My father is very good at keeping things at arm's length," Sasha answered enigmatically.

"And people too, it would seem," she added.

"There are other accounts in your name, when you are released from prison you will not be destitute. Your father has made no attempt to visit you, contact you, underwrite your legal representation." Harry waited for a beat, letting his words sink in, and then he aimed at the Achilles Heel. "He killed your mother."

A muscle twitched in Sasha's cheek, and his hand shook involuntarily before he quickly covered it with the other one. Erin took the opportunity to place an elegant pen on top of the papers. Sasha stared at it impassively. Harry grimaced, wondering if he had overplayed his hand, overestimating his skills of persuasion. The young man raised his eyes and stared directly at Harry.

"Would you have killed her?"

Harry held the young man's gaze, a twinge of compassion flickering under the stoic facade that he maintained. Hidden in the depths of the blue eyes was the young boy that he once had thought was his. The son over whom he carried years of guilt for deserting him and his mother. It was all a charade. Blue eyes, like his father's, it should have been a sign.

"No," Harry answered. It was a lie. If the circumstance had warranted it, if it meant saving lives, he would have killed Elena in an instant. But he knew what the boy needed to hear.

"But you would have killed me," Sasha baited.

"Sasha, they used you." Harry dropped his voice, appealing to the young man's sense of self. "This is your opportunity to stop being a pawn. Turn your back on him and start new.

He levelled a look at Harry. "Once FSB, always FSB."

Harry curled his fingers into a fist, they had lost the boy, the FSB code of silence was greater than Sasha's need for revenge. It had been worth the attempt. To his surprise, Sasha picked up the pen and hastily scrawled his signature.

"Make sure that he rots."

Sasha threw the pen down on the table and retrieved his cane. With the little dignity that was left to him, he walked out of the room.

.

Fine flakes of snow danced on the cold wind, fluttering down and landing on Harry, dusting his coat, melting as they touched his face. It was dark, the hour made even later by his decision to go home before returning to the safe house. Washed and pressed, with a decent shave, he felt more himself and less at his wit's end, the fumes of adrenaline replaced by the energy of anticipation. Two bags banged against his legs, sustenance and a little something more, a reward after a day longer than a year. Arriving at the building, he cradled one of the bags in his arm as he punched the intercom buzzer. He waited. A car sped past, the beam of a headlight passing over his black coat, revealing his position in the cover of darkness. He was exposed and he didn't like it. He punched the keypad once again with more force. The door clicked open and he quickly slid through.

He rapped his knuckles three times on the door to the flat, holding expectation in check, tempering the thought of walking through the door and collapsing into her arms. Ruth opened the door. There was no smile or greeting, she merely turned around and walked away. He stood in the doorway, perplexed by her lack of warmth, running through possible causes in his mind. Rousing himself, he remembered that he needed to close the door.

"Why didn't you let me in on the first buzz?"

"Sorry, I was working on something."

Frowning, annoyed by her distracted state, he concluded that she was giving him the gears for his abrupt departure that afternoon. She made no effort to explain her work but returned to her seat in front of the laptop. Looking to salvage the evening, Harry carried on with his plan and walked toward the tiny kitchenette.

"Malcolm gone?"

"Yes, he left a little while ago."

Harry grimaced at the news; he had asked Malcolm to stay until he arrived. It was late, he could hardly blame the man; besides he had been very diligent in his updates and had kept Harry woven into the loop long after he had left the safe house.

"More food for us."

Extracting the takeaway cartons from the bag, he studied a box, trying to remember if it was Schezwan noodles or fried rice. It didn't matter, at that point he would eat anything. In the background, the keys continued to tap on the laptop, and Ruth squinted at the screen. In an effort to maintain the illusion of emptiness, the flat was in near darkness. The only source of light was a desk lamp, its glow pooling around the table, illuminating her face in sharp contrast with the shadows that loomed in the corners. What was looming in those shadows, he was afraid to ask. He pulled out a bottle of wine, a concession to her, though his system was crying out for a decent ten-year-old scotch. He rummaged in the cupboard for some glasses and finding two, dusted them off and ran them under the tap, telling himself that the alcohol would kill off any remaining germs. After filling the glasses, he crossed over to the table and set a tumbler down beside her. She gave the glass a cursory look.

"I don't want to lose this thread."

"You should eat though."

Harry returned with the cartons, pulled out a chair and sat across from her. He tugged at the knot of his tie, releasing the constraints of the day, a button undone, allowing him to breathe. As he sipped his wine, he gazed at her over the rim of his glass. The sheen in her hair told him that she had showered, and applied some makeup as evidenced by the hue of her lips. Her indifference to his presence remained unsettling and he contemplated the thought that one bottle of wine might not be enough to resolve whatever situation he had stepped into. He opened the flaps of a carton, noodles he observed, and with more force than was strictly necessary, stuck a plastic fork into its contents.

"I have a present for you," he told her as he chewed on the noodles, hoping to pique her curiosity.

"I have one for you too."

She spun the laptop around to face him. On the screen was a rather striking picture of Ariadne Kolos, alongside what looked like an official document in a foreign language.

"Ariadne Kolos died when she was three years old." Ruth tapped the screen. "This woman is not Ariadne Kolos."

Mouth hanging open, fork poised in mid-air, Harry ignored the dangling noodles. "Shit."

Ruth pointed to the document. "This is from Cyprus. Classic identity theft, but it happened in another country. Harder to spot. I just knew what databases to access."

Harry placed the carton on the table and pulled out his phone. He motioned to Ruth. "Send it to me," he commanded in a whisper. She raised an eyebrow at his tone. "Callum," he said. "Get a team on Ariadne Kolos. Yes, now. It's a deep cover. I'm sending you the details. No, don't bring her in yet. Let's see who she talks to."

As he spoke on the phone, Ruth leaned back in her chair, subverting a smile. Having succeeded in her task, she took a congratulatory sip of wine. She rolled the liquid around in her mouth, assessing the vintage. Finding the wine palatable, she downed the entire glass. She examined the glass as she spoke.

"Did you have a nice dinner with her?"

"I didn't know who she was at the time." Harry placed the mobile in his pocket, eyeing her warily.

"I'd only been gone a week."

Taking a deep breath to fortify his courage, Harry closed his eyes. "I thought you were dead."

"It's good to know the time limit, for future reference."

Pushing her chair back, she stood up and walked away, putting the distance of the room between them though it felt like more. The metal slats of the blind clacked together as she peeked through them.

"Don't stand by the window."

"Don't tell me what to do."

"Sorry, I forgot..." Harry took a gulp of the wine, emptying the glass, keeping apace with her. " You don't work for me anymore."

"I was willing to stay but you told me to leave.'

He winced at the sting of her reply. It was a weed that needed to be rooted out or it would continue to grow between them. The conversation on the park bench where he could have, should have said more, the reasoning behind his decision never fully explained. His eyes wandered longingly over to the bottle of wine. He should have bought two. He had never shirked from a challenge before. Here was the opportunity to unpick it all and start fresh. But that was a feat beyond his skill, he no idea what words to invoke. She remained by the window, arms crossed in resistance, her figure silhouetted against the light from the street that fell through the blinds. She wore a different outfit than the previous evening, a dress reminiscent of her former wardrobe, black, narrowing at the waist, dipping at the neckline, the flesh beneath it so close yet still out of reach. Two steps and he could be over there, take control and resolve the situation in a manner that didn't require words. Irritation scratched at him, fatigue and ego battling, combined with the sense that he would never control this woman. His fingers flexed on his tumbler, imagining the material of her dress in his hand, peeling it back, ripping it away. He stood, the legs of his chair scratching loudly against the floor.

"I certainly hope that frock was worth it."

"Frock?" she echoed, confused by his use of the archaic word. "If I had not bought this 'frock' I would never have found the tracking devices.'

Harry crossed to the counter and poured himself another glass of wine, downing a good portion of it before he spoke, patience wearing thin. "Why are you always so damn prickly?"

"I am not prickly." Each syllable of her words carefully enunciated. "I don't know why I have to explain my actions, especially when you never do. Or do I need to remind you of Sasha."

"I told you that day to get back in that bunker but you didn't listen to me."

"That's not what I meant." She folded her arms tighter and looked away from him, unwilling to concede that he had only her best interest at heart.

God, the woman was full of enough stubborn pride to equal his own. He longed to shake some sense into her, not to stand around arguing, wasting the precious moments that time had allotted them. Could she not see that? But then, she had not stared into the gaping hole of loss for the length of time that he had. He ran a hand of weariness across his face. He had witnessed behaviour like this before, the inhabitant of a safehouse bridling at the restraint, risking safety for a moment of freedom, hurling insults at the ones charged to protect them.

"Everything I have asked you to do has been for your own good."

"Why is it that you never listen to me?" she countered. "Why do you never heed my warnings? You were totally compromised by Sasha-"

"Why are you bringing that up? It's over and done with."

Set on another track, she continued her own train of thought."Go here, go there. Don't leave the safe house. Why are you always telling me what to do?"

"I need to protect you."

"I can protect myself," she hissed.

"Can't you get it through your head." Unable to control himself, he gave into his previous impulse and with two quick strides, he closed the gap between them. His fingers wound around her upper arms, thumbs digging into the softness under her dress, the force of his movement causing her head to wobble, exasperation and fury spilling out. "I need to protect you because I love you."

The air shattered around them, the glass that had encased his feelings for so long, breaking, not in a moment of whispered tenderness as he had always imagined, but in a burst of fierce intensity. Eyes wide, irises eclipsed by fathomless pupils, she stared at him, mouth open, chest rising and falling with shaky breaths. The missing slats of the blind cast ribbons of shadow across her face, light and dark existing at once, waring for supremacy, matching the dark desire that swirled within him. She swallowed and blinked, speaking to him in a dry whisper.

"You certainly have a strange way of showing it."

Reason returned to him, along with the remembrance of his earlier vow to treat this woman with care. His anger abated, frustration seeped away, and he released her arm. His initial plan had gone somewhat awry. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the reason why he had stopped at his house. The chain glittered in his hand, the charm dangling over the side of his palm. He held it up to her. Her lips formed a small oh and the lines of consternation on her face vanished, replaced by soft surprise. He should have presented her with the necklace the moment he walked through the door.

"You kept it?" she asked with wonder.

"It was all I had. My only line to you."

She reached out and tentatively touched the chain, testing to see if it was real.

"Is this you?" he asked, offering the necklace up to her. "The woman you once were, the person you want to be again."

"It's one piece," she nodded, accepting his gesture of reconciliation, acknowledging his attempt to convey that he did on occasion listen to her. She took the chain from his hand and moved it around her neck, frowning as she tried unsuccessfully to connect the clasp.

"May I," he asked his tone for once seeking permission instead of commanding.

She turned around and held the necklace up for him. More thumbs than fingers, he clumsily took the chain. She swept her hair aside with one hand to allow him better access. His hands hovered above her skin as he studied the back of her neck, a piece of her that he had not seen since the early years when she wore her hair upswept. He wanted to forget the necklace and place his lips against that vulnerable spot, the tiny nub at the top of her spine where her neck dipped in. Her head moved, wondering at his hesitation. He reigned in his focus, but the delicate hook eluded his grasp. Fingers shaking, he finally connected the clasp and the loop. He let the chain rest on her neck but did not release it entirely, temptation taunting him, calling him to act before it was too late. Forever is composed of nows. His thumb grazed across the nape of her neck, a touch that was barely there, against skin that was barely there. But it was enough to make her shiver. He bent his head down, his breath stirring a strand of her hair.

"You're right," he whispered in her ear. "You're not prickly at all."

Her neck stiffened with surprise, and she half turned, looking at him over her shoulder. He waited, in no way regretting his words, wondering if they could find their way through her armour. In the distance, a siren wailed, down on the street a man shouted with a drunken song and then the silence of the deserted neighbourhood descended once again. Slowly, she turned around and looked up at him. A flicker of light glanced off the charm of her necklace, and his eyes were captured by the reflection. His glance fell down to her throat, dipping lower, following the line of shadow that led to the valley between her breasts. In a rare flash of introspection, it dawned on him the possible root of their frustration with each other.

He reached out and gently laid a finger on the charm as it nestled in the notch of her collar bone. A teardrop of glass, solid beneath his finger. How far could he go? His eyes met hers, searching for the answer. There was no hint of resistance, only fascination. His finger moved, skimming across the ridge of her clavicle; easily broken, harder to mend. The rise and fall of her chest quickened. He let his finger slide lower, delighting in the fine lace of her skin, a voyage that he had only ever travelled with his eyes. The hard surface of her breastbone was revealed, and he stopped just before it gave way to the promise of more malleable flesh. A fluttering of tiny thuds played beneath his fingertips. Blood flowing beneath the skin, heart beating with life. She had returned to him. His throat tightened, air leaving his chest; it was impossible to draw a line around his feelings, words were of no use, entirely ineffective for what he wanted to convey. He gave over to instinct. Closing his eyes, he lowered his head, and brushed his lips across hers, holding his breath for fear that she might vanish. He opened his eyes. She was still there. Her eyes remained closed, head tilted up, searching for him, inviting. He did not need to be asked twice.

In his dreams, he coaxed soft sighs from tender lips, clothes removed with a reverend touch, the slow reveal of a long-sought present. But the luxury of leisure was for those who had ever unfolding days. In this moment, fueled by the heat of uncertainty, there was only the white-hot flash of burning desire. Here, there was only now. His mouth landed on hers with an all-consuming hunger, hard, demanding, the force knocking her off balance. Her fingers clutched at his jacket, and his hands moved to steady her, arms reeling her in. Finesse abandoned, he parted her lips, tongue thrusting, plumbing her depths with a primal urgency. Fabric bunched in his hand, the outline of a leg, fingers finding her inner thigh, a race against the time that fate had allowed him. Desperate to know her body, he pulled at her dress, the material giving away, the flesh of her breast discovered. She pulled at his jacket, struggling in vain to remove it since he would not let her go, settling on tugging the shirt free from his waistband. He backed her up, trying to recollect the layout of the flat. They careened into the edge of the bedroom door, the sharp angle of the frame hitting his back. He felt nothing. The waltz of lust took them into the darkened bedroom, bodies moving on sense and touch. He gave no thought to the condition of the bed, the state of the sheets. He would take her against the wall if need be. They reached the bed earlier than he had anticipated, and they tumbled over each other falling onto the ancient mattress.

"Ow," she exclaimed.

The sharpness of her cry cut through the fog of his desire. The tempo of her breathing changed from one of pleasure to tiny puffs of pain. She sat up in the bed, clutching her stomach.

"What is it?" he groggily asked as if water had been splashed on him.

"Sorry, it's just…" She gave a tiny whimper and then slowed down her breath, her composure returning. "My side is still a bit tender.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." He sat up beside her, contrite, worried. "Are you all right?"

"It's okay."

The light from the next room barely reached the bed, but even in the dimness, he knew that her smile of assurance did not reach her eyes. Disappointment surged within him and then receded replaced by concern, the tenderness that he had eschewed earlier coming forward.

"Do you need a doctor?"

She shook her head. "I just need to rest."

Nursing her side, she eased herself down onto the bed. Finding a blanket, he plumped up a pillow and laid down beside her. She carefully rolled over on her side and looked at him. He gazed back at her, overcome with the novelty of lying with her in the same bed.

"It's probably a good idea if we take things more slowly," he suggested.

"More slowly than we have?"

"We should at least have a proper night out."

"We did have brunch."

"I'd like to take you somewhere nice." His hand found hers and he laced their fingers together.

"Why Harry Pearce, I think you might be a bit of a romantic."

He had never thought of himself as a man of hearts and flowers. Perhaps he had only needed the right woman to uncover it. "I might be, buried under the curmudgeon." His lips grazed her knuckles.

Her free hand played absently with the chain around her neck. "Was this the present that you were talking about?"

"In part," he shifted on the bed. "I convinced Sasha to sign over his account."

"What? That's fantastic. How did you do that?"

"He's a bitter young man, I only offered him a conduit to release it. Now, you'll have a reason to get into the bank."

"I was going to run the plan past you but I got sidetracked with that woman."

"Malcolm kept me abreast of your scheme."

"You had him spying on me?"

"I wouldn't call it that…"

"Does that mean you're willing to entertain my idea?"

"Once I get some back up in place."

"What changed your mind?"

"You're right, we'll never find rest." He reached out to her cheek and brushed his finger along the skin. "See, I do listen to you. Eventually." He let his finger trail down her neck, over her shoulder and down her arm. What was he going to do with his need for this woman? It was a distraction. "I went to your house by the sea."

"You did?"

"I couldn't get past the kitchen."

"Was it that bad?"

"No, it was that…" He paused unable to finish the sentence. He had left a piece of his heart at that house, it had been a struggle to hold the rest of it together. "You weren't there and the emptiness was too much to bear. And what was so close for so many years was gone."

She reached over and touched his face. "I'm here now."

"But you want to go away again. And it seems that I must let you."

"I'm not a frivolous woman, Harry. I've lost everything twice over. My life was almost taken from me again. Someone has to pay. We both know there's a good chance this bank account holds the answer."

"I know."

His hands moved lower, careful to avoid her side, his finger snagging in a tear. "I hope I didn't ruin your frock."

"No one says frock anymore," she teased.

"Only romantics. Or so I'm told."

She nestled in closer to him, her breath playing across his cheek. "I can't help but feel sad that I lost that little cottage by the coast."

"Don't worry," he squeezed her hand, his forehead moving, touching hers. " I'll find you another place by the sea."

They lay in silence, relishing the unaccustomed closeness, a monumental hurdle overcome. Her breathing grew softer, falling into a rhythm. Harry kept her hand securely in his, unwilling to let her go. Mind free of lustful thoughts, clarity returned and he sifted through the steps of her plan, calculating at what points he could weave in the scheme that he had devised. Perhaps he would tell her in the morning.


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N - This chapter has a lot packed into it but I didn't have the heart to split it up since I saw it happening this way in my mind's eye. Hope you enjoy it. Thank you once again for reading!_

* * *

Her sleep was deep and dreamless, the quality of which she had not experienced in a very long time. Surrounded by warmth, she buried herself in the luxury of its oblivion. But at the edge of her slumber, consciousness pricked. At first, it was the nip of a pin, and she dismissed it, adjusting her body into a more comfortable position. It grew insistent. The dull ache of a blunted nail throbbed along her side, and she brought her knees up, curling into a ball. It was scant relief. In the end, it was the cut of a knife across her midriff that she could not ignore. She squeezed her eyes tighter, willing away the pain, concentrating on the slow, steady breath of the body next to hers. It was no use. The seams of her sleep torn, she opened her eyes in resignation. An expanse of white shirt beneath a tattered grey blanket greeted her, shoulders moving beneath the fabric in undisturbed slumber. She reached out and carefully touched the fabric, the cotton crisp beneath her fingers. If only they could stay there, sequestered away from the rest of the world. Fully awake, the pain could not be ignored. She quietly lifted herself from the bed. A parametcol would take the edge off of the discomfort, then she could return and spend a few more minutes beside him.

Early dawn light, cold and blue, filtered through the broken blinds as she tiptoed into the next room and searched in her bag for the bottle of painkillers. The supply was alarmingly low. She swallowed the pills with a glass of water, the metal aftertaste of the liquid sitting in her mouth. Arms stiff, she leaned on the counter, waiting for the misery to subside. Giving into the pain wasn't an option, she would have it seen to later. Still, a small voice in her head wondered if it was a sign, a warning that she should reevaluate her plan. Some would call it madness, traipsing to the other side of the planet, all to infiltrate a bank with the hope that it would lead to a quieter life. The chances of running into unaccounted for variables grew exponentially. Doubt was a weakness, she was stronger than that. It was the safe house; once she was outside the four walls, in the fresh air, she would feel better.

"Are you alright?"

Surprised by the voice, she jumped. Harry hovered near her shoulder.

"Yes," she prevaricated. "I couldn't sleep anymore."

He picked up the bottle and shook it, the dwindling contents inside giving a hollow rattle. He frowned at her, his look conveying his disbelief at her explanation. She did nothing to confirm his suspicions, but he knew the pain had returned. He was always better at reading her than she was at decoding him. He put down the bottle.

"I thought you'd left."

"I wouldn't leave without saying goodbye. Unlike some people." She smiled, softening the brittleness of her words.

"I know. I'm sorry. I had to leave yesterday to keep up the pretence that I had no knowledge of your existence."

She nodded, not entirely mollified by his explanation. "It will be nice to be alive again."

Harry reached for a glass and rinsed it out before refilling it. Drinking the water, he contemplated her sentiment."

"Perhaps it would be wiser to stay among the departed a little while longer."

His morbid suggestion dropped on her optimism with the weight of a stone; she was tired of death in all its forms, fake and real. Why was he asking her to subvert her life even longer? Never one to meet confrontation head-on, she traced a finger along the edge of the counter.

"You said that you would leave the service with me."

"And I meant it."

"Yet, here we are."

"This is the last mission. Then I'm stepping down."

"You told me that once, in your car. It's always the last mission." She looked at him. "Until it's not."

He placed his hand over hers on the counter. In the coolness of the room, his eyes were warm, flecked with gold. Was this his morning gaze, tawny with sleep and affection, touched with amber before they became the inscrutable brown of a hardened spy. She had, on the rare occasion, glimpsed this side of him, free from the strictures of the Grid, no tie, shirt open. Her hand gravitated once again to his shirt, coming to rest on his chest. Heat radiated through the fabric, her palm feeling the deep thud of his heart. She pressed against it, binding him to an oath.

"Will you honour your promise on my return?"

"If not sooner."

She gave him a puzzled look.

"I promised you a house by the sea, remember?"

He leaned into her, his lips brushing her forehead. He released her and picked up his suit jacket from the chair.

"What time is Malcolm due."

"Any minute."

He shrugged on his jacket and extracted his tie from the pocket. With habitual ease, he threaded the tie through his collar and secured it with a knot. The accessory added, his air of authority returned, the man who had always been her superior. True, she did not officially work for him anymore, but the years of deference to his position was hard to shake. Someday, when they had shed their service skins they would stand as equals. He pulled out an envelope from his breast pocket and place it on the table, fingers tapping on it as he spoke.

"Whatever happens, you must board that plane."

"Do I need an oracle to decipher that command." She raised an eyebrow in vexation.

"I have a few pieces in play. I'm not sure how they will all pan out."

"It might be better if you share them with me."

"Since we won't be in communication, it's better if stick with your plan."

She sighed; this man and his secrets.

He found his overcoat, his eyes scanning the room as he slipped his arms into the sleeves. "Sorry to leave you with this mess."

"It's not the first time."

His shoulders sank, and he looked at her, asking for indulgence. With a few steps, he returned to where she stood at the counter. He raised his hand, his fingers cupping her cheek. The feel of his fingers on the sensitive skin of her face was so seductively novel. She didn't want to be prickly, but perhaps he was right to call her such. She needed to let go of the past. The displeasure in her bones melted and she closed her eyes.

"It will all be over soon," he assured her.

"Promise."

"Yes," he whispered, lips close to hers. "But you must promise to get on that plane."

"Yes," she agreed in an answering whisper.

The musk of sleep still hung about him, cheek rough with bristle, warmth exuding from his pores. They each gave an inch, and their lips met. They would do well in the future to forgo obstinacy in return for stolen pleasure. His lips moved across hers with a soft melancholy. It was not a kiss of hard demand, but of a pact sealed, a promise elicited from both of them. She leaned against him one last time, reluctant to let him go.

"It feels like we're always saying goodbye."

"It's not goodbye, we'll see each other soon."

She nodded, the voice of past experience rising, her trust not entirely placed on his words. Tides do change, and perhaps it was time for the wave of fate to rise in their favour. He quietly left the flat with noiseless steps, as always, displaying the ingrained stealth of a thief. She blinked and he was gone. She leaned back against the counter for support, a cloud of loneliness overtaking her. She was not alone, Malcolm would soon arrive. She quietly swore to herself. In all their talk, she had forgotten to question him on who he had conscripted for back up.

.

The sun shone with the promise of warmth, but frost still painted the windows of a derelict car that sat abandoned on the street. Hands buried deep in his pocket, Harry assessed the neighbourhood and decided that his chances of hailing a cab in the vicinity were exceedingly slim. He walked a few blocks to a more prosperous intersection and flagged down a ride. One ear glued to his mobile, he gave the driver directions to his first destination, praying that he would have enough time to complete all the tasks that he had set out for himself. In the underbelly of the city, traffic was surprisingly sparse, and within minutes, the cab pulled to a stop in front of the shop. Harry debated the merits of retaining the same driver and then thought the better of it. Wiser to move from cab to cab.

The glass door of the record shop gave a soft thud as Harry let it swing closed behind him. Deserted, the place appeared abandoned, the only sign of life the forlorn notes of a cornet wafting from the back room. Harry made his way through the stacks of records to the source of the music.

"Harry," Jerry raised his head in surprise. The man sat amongst digital debris, the cardboard sleeve of a Bix Biederbeck album resting against an ancient turntable. "You're early."

"Not too early I hope."

"No, it just came."

Jerry reached into a crate of records and pulled out a brown envelope from between the albums. "This isn't my usual gig. Hope it meets your standards."

Harry opened up the envelope and carefully examined the documents. "Looks in order to me."

"If you keep this up, I might have to start charging you."

"Or I could just continue to distract the government from your operation."

Jerry chuckled. "You'd never turn me over. Where else would you find your original Deutsche Grammophon?"

"I hear they've invented this thing called the internet."

Jerry motioned to the motherboard that he was working on. "Yeah, we can convince ourselves that we've moved along with the times, but in the end, we're vinyl men, Harry."

Harry gave a tight smile, smarting at the allusion to age, acknowledging that the man was only verbalising what had been floating around in his head for the past few days. Years if he were to be completely honest. A man out of his time, living in the past. The only way to move forward was to let it go. He tipped the envelope to his forehead in a mock salute and nodded his thanks. His tread slowed as he walked back through the stacks, the vastness of the day looming before him. Gone were the days of rushing from place to place, fuelled on nothing but caffeine and nicotine. His muscles felt the ache of an unfamiliar bed, and as he opened the door, his bones shrank at the unrelenting cold.

Back out on the street, he managed in his first attempt to hail a taxi. Punching in a number on his mobile, he spoke as he entered the vehicle.

"Erin," he greeted his Section Chief without preamble. "I've had a chance to reconsider my security detail. I may have been too hasty in dismissing them. Yes, get a car ready and I'll send them my location. I should be at the Grid within the hour."

.

In the dim light of the tiny bathroom, the wound was a mottled patchwork of white scar tissue and angry splotches of redness. Ruth carefully placed her finger on the edge, the inflamed skin tender to her touch. Supplies arranged on the chipped countertop, she conceded it wasn't the most sterile of environments but it was all that she had. Closing her eyes, she steeled herself, reigning in her imagination from going down the dark hole of infection and abscess. Soaking the cotton swab in alcohol, she cautiously placed it on the wound, sucking air through her teeth as the skin burned beneath it. In the history of wounds, she had seen others suffer worse and survive. For that matter, Harry had been shot point blank by Tom and returned to the Grid within a few days. She need only make it through the next few hours and then she would have a professional look at the stitches. Using her teeth, she tore the medical tape into strips and carefully placed each one on top of the fresh gauze. Realising that she was holding her breath during the entire procedure, she let out a long sigh of relief and looked at herself in the mirror. Dark circles showed beneath her eyes, the taut skin of her face still pale. There was no time to dwell on her appearance. She quickly ran a comb through her damp hair and secured the knot of her dress around her waist, careful to mind the sight of the wound. A knock sounded on the outer door and she jumped, knocking over the bottle of disinfectant.

"Shit," she swore softly, righting the bottle as quietly as possible, unsure of who was knocking at the door.

The visitor rapped two more times in quick succession. The signal of a friendly. She opened the door. Malcolm stood in the hallway, arms loaded with paraphernalia.

"I got those danishes that you like."

"Wonderful." Ruth greeted him with a smile as she freed the bag and a briefcase from his hands.

He entered the flat, rolling in an old brown suitcase behind him. "I hope this isn't too ugly."

"It's perfect." She took the case from him and opened up the zipper. "Not that I have too much to put into it, but it will be enough to give the impression that I'm a tourist."

"Here are your papers." He removed the documents from his briefcase. "Passport, driver's licence, credit cards, ticket."

Ruth picked up the passport and grimaced at the rather unflattering picture. "Charlotte Hennessy. I can live with that name."

"It's an art, you know, deciding on the right name to fit the person."

Ruth picked up the brown envelope that Harry had left behind. "Harry dropped this off. It's papers signing over Sasha's account."

"Yes, he told me."

Ruth's mouth drew into a line, irritated that the two men had discussed the retrieval of the account without her. What other matters had they discussed that she was not privy to?

"I'm leaving out of Gatwick." Malcolm informed her. " I'll be arriving later than you."

Ruth studied her ticket. "I have a stopover in Miami."

Malcolm sifted through his treasures as he spoke. "I'm sending a few devices with you just in case something is lost in transit." He pulled out a set of earrings, a lipstick tube and a compact. "Disguised of course."

Ruth picked up the compact and noted the hollow space underneath the disc of powder. "I guess our trip to the makeup aisle came in handy."

"You can store the USB device in it."

She frowned as she considered that option, though she was somewhat loathed to store it any place else except on her immediate person.

"All the containers should be within regulation size. We don't want to draw any undue attention to ourselves."

She nodded her agreement. She turned to cross to her suitcase, but the sudden movement left her unbalanced and she was struck by a moment of dizziness. She clutched at the edge of the table.

"Everything okay?" Malcolm asked.

"Do you find it hot in here?"

Malcolm looked around the room and pulled up the collar of his coat. "I would say its unusually chilly in here."

Ruth pulled out a chair and sat down. "I probably just need to get something into my system." She tore off a piece of a danish and popped it in her mouth. Her blood sugar was low, that was it. She chewed the pastry hungrily and gave Malcolm a smile thanks, assuring him that she was perfectly fine.

.

The vagaries of weather had worn away a chunk of the step, and Harry was careful to avoid the hazard as he made his way toward the double doors of the library. He pulled on the handle but the door did not budge. A bolt of panic ripped through him at the thought of having to rearrange the entire day. The drop needed to be done as early as possible for the pieces to fall into place. He tried the other door, his worry assuaged as it easily opened. The first floor was free of visitors but for an elderly man who sat near the window, leisurely reading a newspaper. A fellow Luddite, Harry surmised. Silence followed behind him as he walked between the shelves. Rows of faded spines passed by the periphery of his vision. No doubt books would soon suffer the same fate as records, just as he was destined to one day to end up on the ash heap of obsolescence. Better to go out under one's own steam than to be carried out with the refuse.

The metal skeleton of the spiral staircase gave a soft twang as he ascended the steps. With an air of purpose, he headed to the section devoted to Science, casually glancing at a book on biology while surreptitiously gauging his surroundings. There was no one. He quietly shelved the book and meandered over to the history section, tipping out two volumes before he selected the biography of Cromwell. Using his body as a blind, he opened the book and subtly inserted a slip of paper into the spine. He quickly replaced it and pulled out another book for good measure. He tucked the book under his arm, giving the impression that he was on his way to check it out. He retraced his route down to the first floor and gave a cursory scan of the room. A new visitor had appeared. Slumped in a chair one table over from the elderly patron, was a man who had obviously been living life rough on the street. It would have been easy to overlook the man, dismiss him as one of the many homeless who found shelter within the walls of the city's libraries, but a having lived a life steeped in suspicion, Harry could not easily ignore it. He subtly changed the trajectory of his steps, coming close enough to the old man to see the morning headline on The Times. A librarian carrying an armload of books passed by and Harry sidestepped her, brushing against the table where the homeless man sat. Taking a moment to regain his balance, Harry paused and inhaled a deep breath. There was no stench of unwashed clothes, of stale urine or alcohol, or any of the usual odours associated with life on the streets, nothing to disturb the dignified must of aged paper. The homeless man stirred at Harry's presence but did not meet his eyes. It was one of the oldest surveillance tricks, random homeless bloke. He was being followed. He quickly calculated the odds of the safehouse being compromised.

As he exited the building, Harry pulled out his phone. He begrudgingly admitted that the advent of the mobile phone had certainly made his life much easier. Malcolm answered on the first ring.

"I suspect that I am being followed. Don't know if your location has been jeopardised." The conversation was kept to a minimum and Harry rang off without saying goodbye. He rounded the block and spotted a black car. Without breaking his stride, he walked over to the vehicle and stepped in.

"Thanks for stopping by, Trevor."

"I was informed that you wanted the security detail discontinued."

"Saner minds prevailed." He could not confess the real reason for reactivating his security detail. He would reveal that to Trevor closer to the time that he needed his cooperation.

"Thames House by way of the Royal, if you don't mind."

"Certainly, Sir."

The car moved forward and Harry glanced in the rearview mirror. The homeless man from the library stood on the street, watching helplessly. Harry smiled to himself as the car sped away.

.

The air of the safehouse crackled with a contained nervousness, and Ruth's hands shook as she filed away her new identity, Harry's call to Malcolm adding tension to her already strained system. Her stomach fluttered as she recalled the speed in which she had left Cyprus. The present situation was markedly different, she would be returning, and she was not alone this time. Malcolm methodically double checked her documents as she packed away her few possessions. They did not speak but moved about the flat with quiet efficiency. Ruth entered the bathroom, the medical supplies clattering as she swept them into her bag. She paused for a moment and took a deep breath, expelling the anxiety that was rising within her. Returning to the outer room, she stuffed the leftover takeaway into a plastic bag alongside the empty bottle of wine. A glass fell from her hand and dinged against the side of the sink.

"I can look after all that," Malcolm offered. "You should leave first."

"What if they're out there?"

"I think that is highly unlikely. Harry is erring on the side of paranoia. Find a taxi. They won't be anticipating a flight out of the country."

Not totally convinced by Malcolm's reasoning, she nodded. She took a final tour of the apartment, looking in the cupboards and under the bed searching for any miscellaneous items. A gnawing sense of loss told her she was forgetting something, but she couldn't figure out what it was. Returning to the bathroom, an object on the shelf caught her eye. The necklace. She had taken it off when she had showered. She smiled at her forgetfulness, glad that she had checked twice. With the help of the mirror, she secured the clasp and patted it in place. Touched by both of them, it was a talisman for luck.

She shrugged on her black coat, grabbed the brown suitcase, and gave one last glimpse to the documents in her bag.

"Right then."

Malcolm stood before her and placed his hands on her shoulders. "Everything is going to be alright. Go straight to the airport, get on the plane and I will see you soon."

The time had come. She could not back out of a plan of her own design. She slipped out through the door, the wheels of her suitcase squeaking slightly as she padded down the carpeted hall. The doors of the ancient lift opened.

"Into the valley," she murmured and stepped into the waiting cage.

.

Harry studied his reflection in the glass. Oblivious to his thoughts, the pod door waited patiently for him to step on the sensory pad and engage the mechanism. There was always the chance that each pass through the doors could be his last. He was making the right decision, leave the service with her. It was too late anyway, he could not reverse the pieces he had set in motion. He stepped forward, concentrating on the click and hiss as the glass activated, committing the sound to memory. The noise of the Grid greeted him as he passed through. Erin was perched on the edge of Callum's desk, and Harry walked over to her.

"Do you have eyes on Ariadne?"

"Yes," Erin confirmed. "Dimitri's watching her."

Harry turned to Callum. "Did she do as we asked at the Committee meeting?"

"She was very compliant with our request, much to the consternation of Price."

"Are you going to tell us where you got the information about her identity?" Erin asked.

"I have my sources."

She looked at him sceptically but did not press for an answer. Harry changed the subject.

"I've got one last meeting with Gavrik before he leaves."

"Do you think that's wise?"

"Don't worry, I'll behave."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

"I've reinstated my security detail. They'll keep an eye on me."

Harry turned to leave, but Erin halted his retreat with a hand on his arm. She stepped in closer and lowered her voice.

"Everything is in order for the service tomorrow."

Confused, Harry racked his brain to figure out what service Erin was referencing, when it finally dawned on him that she was speaking about Ruth's memorial. He recovered himself by brushing a hand of grief over his brow. "What time?"

"Ten in the morning."

"Good."

He looked into the eyes of his Section Chief. If she were Ros, he would tell her. He would have confided in Adam, after all, the man had been there at the first death. Erin tilted her head, eyes narrowing as she examined him. She had not risen through the ranks of the Service without the talent of spotting a lie. Harry walked away before she could delve any deeper.

The sanctity of his office had always been a refuge. He closed the door to his office but did not bother to take off his coat. Record shop, library, his office, each a shrine to the past. Over the years, the walls had remained the same intimidating red that he had commissioned the day he took up his post. There were deep indents in the carpet from his desk, never moved, squarely planted to oversee the Grid. He crossed to a shelf and picked up a marble figurine of a horse. A gift from Amanda Bennett after he had managed to second her and Archie Hollingsworth back from Six. She had joked that Harry could ride out on it if the job ever got too much, while Archie joked it was more like the pale horse of death looking over his shoulder. Harry smiled at the memory, his finger tracing over the smooth outline of the animal. They were both dead now, taken too soon, like many of his team. The horse had remained in the exact same spot for years, the wood beneath it a dark brown. Harry replaced it, moving the statue with his fingers to cover up the tell-tale sign of age. He unlocked the credenza and took out the decanter of scotch. He didn't need to look at the time. He knew it was too early for a drink. He poured himself a glass and eased himself into his chair. The computer had changed along with the phone, the man had stayed the same. Leaning back, he took a sip of the scotch, gazing out into the familiar business of the Grid. He tried to recollect the number of times he had either been escorted away, vowing to return, or stormed off under his own steam, at times vowing to stay away. The gravitational pull of his calling was always too much. He had not lied to her but would take a seismic shift in the universe to dislodge him from this orbit.

.

The taxi driver kept up a steady stream of dialogue, and Ruth answered his questions as vaguely as possible. The stars had aligned and she had secured the cab with greater ease than she had anticipated. She sank back into her seat, scurrying pedestrians and desolate shops passing by her window. A part of her was glad to leave the bleakness of the city. Perhaps by the time she had returned, spring would have shown itself.

"I don't like flying much," the cabbie offered conversationally,

"Neither do I," Ruth admitted.

She looked out the back window, monitoring the traffic, looking for a suspicious vehicle. She had no idea if she was being followed. All the cars looked the same to her.

"Anything wrong?" the driver asked.

"No, everything's fine."

"You were looking out the back like we were being followed."

"That would be exciting, wouldn't it?" She laughed, a tiny note of hysteria colouring her humour.

"I might be thinking you're a right spy or something."

"Do I look like a spy?"

"Nah, you look like the woman that works at my bank."

Ruth raised an eyebrow, simultaneously insulted and flattered by his assessment of her. She conceded it was for the best that he thought her capable of such a mundane profession. It gave a much-needed boost to her confidence that she could pull off her role with Sasha's account.

"You're right, someone like me could never be a spy."

It was the truth. She wasn't anymore, at least officially. Her stomach turned over, rising and then falling. She chalked it up to the serpentine nature of their route. She cracked open the window, inhaling deeply as a gust of fresh air filtered into the car. Once she was out of the moving vehicle she would feel better.

.

The exterior of the townhouse revealed itself as a wash of dreary grey. Between his last visit and the current one, the facade had somehow lost its patrician sheen. It could have been due to a stray cloud obscuring the sun, but Harry knew different. The last time he had visited Gavrik, he had been on his back foot, broken, lacking any coherent strategy in how to deal with the man. Back then, the sun had deserted him and shone on his nemesis. The board had changed, the game tilting in his favour.

The giant door was opened by the same balding man. Thick neck, broad shoulders, ex- Mossad. Harry blinked but quickly looked away, hiding his look of revelation. The other bodyguard held his hand out to take Harry's coat

"I'll keep my coat this time if you don't mind."

The two men shared a look, and the bald man shrugging his shoulder. They relented and showed Harry into the room where Gavrik waited. The man rose from his chair and greeted Harry.

"Thank you for meeting with me. Would you be more comfortable if you removed your coat?"

"I'm not staying long. I wanted to wish you a safe voyage,"

"I'm sure you did." Gavrik held up a glass pitcher. "Water?"

"Scotch, if you have it."

"You've come to your senses, I see."

Harry sat down and accepted the drink from Gavrik's hand. Secrets swirled about him. The man was rich with the currency of unknown information. Did he know that Ruth was alive? Had he planted a device on Harry purely out of habit? Like father, like son.

"Your son is doing well. Seems to be recovering nicely."

The smile on Gavrik's lips faltered, his eyes hardening. "You've spoken with him?"

"Part of the investigation. He did kill one of my officers." Harry took a sip of the scotch and studied Gavrik over the room.

"As I said earlier, I will support whatever justice is in line with his crime."

"Not all crimes receive their rightful punishments."

Gavrik crossed his legs, the toe of an Italian loafer swinging. "I'm glad you brought up my son. That is why I asked you here."

Gavirk paused, leaving an opening for Harry to pick up the conversation. Harry took a slow sip of his scotch, resisting the bait, waiting for the man to continue. Gavrik stared at him, both men using silence as a weapon. Harry settled into the comfort of his seat. He needed to get out of the room but he would do everything to refute that impression. Gavirk uncrossed his legs, the leather of his shoe coming close to Harry's calf.

"It would seem that my son has signed over one of his accounts to you."

"Well, not to me personally."

"If he is found guilty of a criminal offence those funds should revert to me."

"Actually, they would become the property of the British government."

"I was under the impression that we were working as a team."

"Quite right. I'm still waiting on those names from Tiresias." Harry finished off his scotch and set the tumbler on the low table that sat between them, a move on the board, calling Gavrik's bluff.

"I was hoping I could have those funds within the next few hours."

Harry patted his breast pocket with a mock search. "Not having the papers on me, I'm unable to accommodate that request."

"That is most unfortunate."

"A few months perhaps. The wheels of bureaucracy are slow to turn." Harry stood up. "But considering our longstanding acquaintance, I'll see if I can speed things along."

Gavrik rose in feigned courtesy. "That would be greatly appreciated."

"In exchange for the names, of course."

"Of course," Gavrik conceded with a tight smile.

The two men stood assessing each other, Harry holding back a smile, aware that he had given nothing up but had, in turn, received confirmation of the importance of Sasha's account to Gavrik. They were both masters of the bluff, but it was far easier to bet all the chips on the table when there was nothing left to lose. Besides, he had already won. He had found Ruth.

Harry exited the room, leaving Gavrik to stew in the juices of financial insecurity. He made no attempt to acknowledge the bodyguards as he left the building and walked toward the waiting car. Trevor stood to attention as his boss approached, and Harry held up his hand indicating that the man could relax.

"The weather is looking up a bit. I thought I might walk back through the park."

"Shall I come with you?"

"If you wish." Harry looked at the young man as he pulled on his gloves. "Discreetly, of course."

The path was filled with a stream of pedestrian traffic, office workers freed from their towers of steel and glass seeking a few moments of refuge in the patch of green. The gravel crunched as a cyclist sped past, shoulders hunched over the handlebars, Harry sidestepping the wheels avoiding a collision. A mother walked by with a pram, coffee cup in hand, shushing a wailing infant. A flock of starlings, disturbed by the bark of a dog, rose into the air and then dove in a unified wave of feathers. The grey limbs of trees hung over the path, tiny buds on their bows searching for the sun, patiently waiting for days of continued warmth to finally break free. The tune that had been running through his head for days returned and Harry absently whistled a few bars. He stopped for a moment, overcome by the view, the lines of Browning running through his head. This was the scene that he wanted to remember. In the distance, he spotted an empty bench and he headed toward it, giving himself permission to take a small rest. The Embankment might have been more fitting, there were a number of benches there that held significance, places that he had sat alongside her, the ebb and flow of the river framing their relationship. Their last bench had been in a park on a day that he had replayed in his head many times. He would sit on a bench with her again, and this time he would hold her hand and not let her go.

A man in a business suit hurried past, talking on his mobile, late to a meeting. Distracted, he careened close to Harry, the edge of his briefcase nicking Harry in the leg.

"Sorry," the man mumbled, turning to Harry with a tight smile of apology.

Harry nodded and brushed it off. He continued on his way to the bench. After a few paces, his footsteps faltered and he crumpled to the ground. Gravel pressing against his cheek, he gasped for air. The toe of a shoe came into view and he closed his eyes.

.

The terminal was a scene of controlled chaos. Winding her way through the crowd, Ruth headed to the baggage check-in. Beads of perspiration pricked at her temple. It was the change in the temperature, the sudden transition from the coolness of the street to the closeness of the airport. Voices echoed in her head and she stumbled. She steadied herself against a pillar, mouth dry, craving a glass of water. She had to continue on. She had promised Harry she would board the plane no matter what. The line at the counter was mercifully small and she hefted her suitcase onto the luggage scale. She presented her ticket and then pulled out her passport. The attendant barely glanced at each document and then printed off a tag for her luggage. A placard sat on the counter warning travellers of illness. The attendant followed Ruth's gaze.

"It's for a strain of hemorrhagic fever. Screening people as a precaution. We seem to be dealing with that more often these days. I wouldn't worry about it though."

Ruth scanned the symptoms, fever, chills, dizziness. She looked up at the attendant a mustered the healthiest smile that she could manage. The attendant handed Ruth a boarding pass.

"Enjoy your trip," she smiled at Ruth and waved for the next passenger to approach.

Free of her luggage, Ruth followed the signs to the nearest washroom. She leaned her head against the cool tiles, certain that she was running a fever. The pill bottle was at the bottom of her bag, and she unscrewed the top dispensing the remaining tablets. Using her hand to cup water from the tap, she hurriedly swallowed the pills, taking the opportunity to splash the cold stream on her face. She pinched her cheeks and smoothed her air. A dash of lipstick and she would look passable.

She joined the line waiting at security, regretting the decision not to go the fast track route. Malcolm had pointed out that it would be better to blend in with the masses then stand out in business class. The line crawled along and Ruth inched toward the scanners wondering how long she could remain standing. She finally deposited her shoulder bag and coat in the bin, watching as they sailed along the conveyor belt. One of the benefits of not existing was the surprising lack of personal items. She stepped through the panels of the scanner, setting off a loud beep. She kept her face impassive. Against Malcolm's advice, she had tucked the USB stick in her bandage. It would no doubt raise suspicions if she were found concealing it. She would be pulled aside and searched. She closed her eyes, chastising her own stupidity. A wand was passed over her body, and she prayed that circles of perspiration did not show through her dress. She stared ahead, focusing on a point in the distance, devoting all her concentration to stop her limbs from shaking. The wand beeped as it passed over her necklace.

"Sorry, I didn't realise." She gave the guard an apologetic smile.

The security guard nodded and motioned for her to continue through.

Surviving the gauntlet of security, Ruth collapsed in a chair in the boarding lounge. A television played at one end. Volume off, it was a news channel, the anchor's commentary muted. Ruth read the chryon as it scrolled across the bottom of the screen. Plummeting market numbers, an actor divorcing, a crisis in the Middle East. She wanted to close her eyes and rest but she was afraid she might fall asleep. A voice announced the boarding order and Ruth glanced at her ticket to see her place in the queue. It was dishearteningly low. Her eyes flitted over to the television. Displayed on the screen was an old picture of Harry. She stood up and walked closer to the monitor. The chryon ran across the bottom of the screen.

Head of MI5 counter-terrorism found dead of a suspected heart attack.

The perspiration cooled against her skin and a shiver ran through her body. A heart attack? That was impossible. Though given his age, his lifestyle and drinking habits it wasn't outside the realm of possibilities. She sat down and rummaged through her bag. She needed to talk to Malcolm.

Get on the plane no matter what. His words ran through her head.

There was no way he could have anticipated a heart attack. Her blood froze. Suspected heart attack. She knew what that phrase meant, the actors who favoured that particular modus operandi. The lounge swayed before her and she closed her eyes.


	13. Chapter 13

The glossy cover of the magazine promised a paradise of white sandy beaches and crystal clear waters. Harry idly picked up the publication and flipped through the pages, the smiling faces of scantily clad revellers barely registering in his mind. He set it down, leaving his hands free to fidget, fingers clasping and unclasping, focus deserting him. He didn't need to look at the pictures in the magazine for images of a tropical paradise, he only needed to look out the window of the airport. A row of palm trees swayed gently in the breeze, lazy frons casting dappled shadows in the morning sun. At least his watch told him it was morning, his body, on the other hand, was working on an entirely different clock. A day had been lost to travel and then, partially regained by crossing a few times zones, mind conscious of the change, body lagging behind.

Through the window, a cloudless sky of distilled blue hung overhead and Harry squinted into it, willing her plane to appear. His eyes returned to the arrival board and picked out the number of the flight; delayed, no explanation. His own flight had been surprisingly smooth, the benefits of talking his way onto a chartered plane. He had risked losing the shroud of anonymity in exchange for the advantage of precious time but thought it a fair trade for the reward of arriving on the island ahead of her. He had not anticipated so wide a gap. He absently tapped his fingers on his thigh, the tension of waiting slightly abated by the tranquil atmosphere of the airport. The interior echoed the terrain of the island, ocean blue pillars and white sandstone walls. It was one of the pleasanter airports that he had frequented. Travellers leisurely strolled by, wearing sunglasses and shorts, arms and legs revealed to the tropical sun. Harry had only conceded to a pair of sunglasses, winter still ingrained in his system, unable to commit completely to the ways of summer. He had, of course, abandoned a suit and tie for khaki pants and a white shirt, even daring to roll up the sleeves, but that was the extent of his acclimatisation, his northern soul loathing to reveal more.

Unable to hide his exasperation, Harry stood up and walked toward the arrival board, eyeing it with irritation, as if the power of his glance could force the time to flip on the screen. He had no idea if she had even managed to board the flight out of Heathrow. There was a scheduled stop in Miami, perhaps that was the cause of the delay. Shedding his irritation, he walked to the counter and gave the attendant the most charming smile that he could muster.

"Could you tell me when the flight from Miami will be in?"

The attendant punched the keys of her terminal. "We're expecting it at any time. There was a delay in departing. A passenger was ill and had to be escorted off."

The news squeezed at Harry's throat. It was her. The signs had been obvious but he had accepted her word. He should have insisted that she see a doctor. He cleared his throat.

"Would you be able to tell me who it was?"

"I'm sorry, sir, I can't give you that information."

"It's just that I'm waiting for my wife, I'm worried that it might be her."

"I understand, but I still can't give out the name. If it was your wife, I'm sure the proper authorities would let you know."

Harry remained at the counter debating whether or not to slip the woman a monetary incentive. Not yet, he decided, it might draw attention. Competing thoughts warred within him – she had missed the flight out of Heathrow or she was the ailing passenger. He could phone Malcolm. That was the only contact remaining. But Malcolm was on his own flight and was also in the dark. He rued his inability to pick up his mobile and get the information from the Grid. It had been a gamble to completely cut himself off, but he could think of no other way.

Pockets of the terminal stirred as tour operators and resort guides arrived in anticipation of the delayed flight, voices joining and rising to the vaulted ceiling. The hum of an engine thrummed in the distance and a plane appeared on the horizon. It circled overhead, taking one last swoop out over the sea before it charted its landing onto the runway; a manmade isthmus that had caused Harry to clutch the arm of his seat during his own descent. He moved with the crowd of people to the arrival gate and leaned against the wall, tampering down anxiety by feigning a relaxed pose, the time between disembarking and clearing customs was notoriously fickle, another reason he had cajoled his way onto a private airliner. The dribble of passengers through the gate grew to a flux, smiles erupting on their faces as they were greeted by various welcoming parties, moving en masse to the baggage carousel. Still, he waited. His mind formed contingency plans, fly to Miami himself, send Malcolm, abandon the mission. Slowly the crush of disembarking passengers thinned out, leaving one or two stragglers to be released from immigration. A lone brown suitcase made a solo circuit of the carousel, awaiting its owner. He walked toward it, wondering if it was hers, a sign that her luggage had arrived but not the owner. He glanced at the terminal clock, calculating how much time he should wait before breaking out into full damage control.

"Bastard."

He spun around. Ruth stood before him, a small carry on bag in one hand, her heavy coat in the other. Tired, dishevelled, all the hallmarks of a weary traveller.

"Thank God, you're here."

He reached out for her, but she stepped back, eyes full of fury.

"I thought that you were dead," she hissed.

"What are you talking about?"

"On the news, at the airport." Her words spilt out in an incoherent stutter, "Head of MI5 Counterterrorism, dead of a heart attack. And a picture of you."

"Is it out already?"

"How could you do that and not tell me?" she accused him. "After all we've been through?" Voice cracking, her shoulders slumped, the weight of her coat and the bag too much to bear.

"Shh, not here." He pulled her close to him, heartened to find her yielding to his embrace. "You don't need to be so prickly," he teased, a vain attempt to lighten the mood.

"Well, stop dying," she sniffled.

"I could say the same for you." He rubbed his cheek against hers, his lips pressing against her skin. "You're burning up."

"I'm not dressed for this weather."

He held her at arm's length. Skin ashen, a strand of hair plastered against her temple, he realised it was not the strain of travel that had caused her dishevelled appearance.

"I'm taking you to a doctor."

"No, I just need to rest."

Silently dismissing her claim, Harry fetched her suitcase and took her by the elbow, escorting her out of the terminal. The sun shone with its full intensity, hitting them as they exited the building. Ruth shrank from it, raising a hand to shield her eyes from the rays.

"God, it's bright here. It's like being back on Cyprus."

Although he made no response to the reference to her former life, he could not ignore the sting that the observation had left behind. It had not crossed his mind that this island would remind her of her past.

He found the rented car and stowed her safely in the passenger seat. After a brief conversation with the attendant at the gate, Harry set off in the direction of the nearest hospital. Years of crawling through London traffic had not prepared him for the clip of driving on the small island. Navigating an inordinate number of roundabouts, they sailed past low lying buildings, roads free from the shadow of towering office blocks. Taking his eyes off of the road, Harry assessed the condition of his passenger. Slumped in the seat, head leaning against the glass, Ruth stared out the window.

"I remember this blue."

At her wistful words, Harry's fingers tightened on the steering wheel, his dream of finding an escape with her tarnished by the fact that they had ended up on an island reminiscent of the one she had forsaken in such a heart-wrenching fashion. Turning the corner, his attention was abruptly reclaimed by an oncoming car. He laid a hand on the horn, averting a near collision. The driver gave him a wave of apology, a tourist unfamiliar with driving on the left side of the road. The beat of his heart returned to normal its normal tempo after the near miss; it wouldn't do for both of them to end up in hospital. The building came into view, the large red letters of the emergency entrance standing out against the yellow brick.

A scattering of people waited on padded chairs, sunlight streaming in through large windows, the air of calmness a complete contrast to the noise and chaos he had encountered at the Royal. The desk nurse admitted them, Harry completing the paperwork after rifling through Ruth's bag and acquainting himself with all the documents of her new identity. They were escorted into a tiny room. Exhausted, Ruth went directly to the examining table, the crepe paper rustling beneath her as she laid back on it and closed her eyes. Harry sat down in the chair beside her. He reached out and took her hand.

"I'm fine," she assured him.

Her words were slightly slurred and he wondered if she was delirious.

"Why do you have to be so stubborn?"

"I have to buy a dress."

He tightened his grip on her clammy hand, the non sequitur of her statement adding fuel to his suspicion that she was delirious. Harry settled in for a long wait and was surprised when the door opened and a nurse stepped in.

"Alright, Ms Hennessy. Let's see what we can do for you."

Using her elbows to prop herself up, Ruth opened her mouth but Harry interjected before she could speak.

"She has a wound that hasn't healed properly. She's been refusing to let anyone see it."

Ruth glared at him.

"And what is your relationship to the patient?" the nurse asked politely.

"Actually, we're-" Ruth started.

"I'm her husband." Harry cut her off, his admission receiving an incredulous look from Ruth.

"I'm going to need you to step out for a minute, Mr Hennessy, so we can have a look at your wife."

The woman's tone was so pleasant and accommodating, that Harry didn't even realise that she had manoeuvred him out of the room, clearing the way for a physician to slip in and take his place. Out in the small hall, he found another row of chairs and took a seat, deciding to defer to the nurse and not cause a scene. She had no doubt placed him under the heading of meddling relative. He leaned his forearms on his knees, and hung his head, dismissing one plan and forming another. One night in the hospital, and they could still carry out the mission, but any more then that and he would have to reevaluate the operation. Her health was paramount. He would hash it out with Malcolm when he arrived. A coffee machine stood in the corner, and lacking any other distraction, he walked toward it, patting his pockets as he searched for money. He pulled out an American bill and realised he hadn't been on the island long enough to collect any change. He studied the grainy picture of the denomenation's President. Fitting, that they should end up in a land that sat in limbo between two countries.

Ruth came out into the hallway.

"I've got a prescription for some antibiotics."

"Are you alright?"

She nodded. "The stitches weren't broken, only an infection."

"Only?" He raised an eyebrow

"They gave me some ointment." She showed him a little tube. "Guess I should have taken out some travel insurance."

A wren in black, felled by a broken wing, stranded on a strange island. He wanted to take her home and mend her. He longed to fell the skin of her cheek beneath his hand and kiss her. She smiled at him weakly. He took the prescription from her hand and pocketed it as they walked down the hall.

.

The air inside the bungalow was surprisingly cool.

"I thought I booked a hotel room," Ruth observed as she walked in, bewildered by the accommodation.

Manoeuvring the suitcase, Harry followed closely behind her. "It's easier if we have our own base."

She took a few cautious steps into the room and looked around. Bright walls of white stucco were crossed by the wooden struts of a high beam ceiling, accents of coral and turquoise sprinkled about with a decorator's touch. She crossed the open concept living space to a set of glass doors. She slid one open, ushering in a salt-tinged breeze that stirred the curtains. Outside, beyond a row of scraggly brush and a line of white sand, lay the sea.

"It's beautiful."

A counter separated the kitchenette from the living area, and Harry placed the bag containing all the medications on its surface. "It's always good to have a second exit."

She gave him a forlorn look. He pursed his lips realising too late that he had drummed the romance out of the moment. He would not be so cavalier with the next opportunity. He made a motion with his hand.

"The bedroom is through there." He quickly amended the sentence when he saw the look of alarm on her face. "If you need to lie down and rest."

"Bedroom?" she echoed. "Is there only one?"

"There's a daybed out here. I was going to avail myself of that."

She nodded. "Yes, I think I need to wash up a bit and lie down."

The edges of her stubbornness softened by exhaustion, she gave no further argument but headed directly to the room. Harry filled a glass of water. Had it been too presumptuous of him to book a cottage with only one bedroom? They had shared a bed a few evenings earlier, surely some new ground had been broken. He mollified himself with the thought that she was still recovering, it was for the best that he sleep on the couch. He carried the glass along with the prescriptions into the bedroom. Remaining in her travelling close, she had merely flopped onto the bed, her body placed haphazardly across the covers. The tablets rattled in the bottle as he dispensed them, and she opened her eyes as Harry handed her the glass of water.

"Every four hours it says."

She nodded at him while she sipped the water. "I slept a bit on the plane. I think that helped."

His lips drew into a line of reprimand as he screwed the lid back on the medication. She straightened herself out on the bed, and he pulled a blanket up from the bottom and tucked it around her shoulders.

"You have a better bedside manner than I thought you would," she observed.

"And you're just as bad a patient as I thought you would be."

"You can tell me a bedtime story if you like." She lay back on the pillow and closed her eyes. "How about the one where the Section Head fakes his death."

Harry brought a chair around to the side of the bed and sat down.

"Well, once upon a time there was a doctor who lied about the death of a rather remarkable woman." Harry paused, enjoying the slight smile that the start of his story had elicited from her. "Since the Section Head knew of this lie, he was able to coerce the doctor into doing it once again. And as a bonus, the doctor filed a toxicology report that highlighted a suspicious substance, a chemical favourited by our friends."

"The Russians."

"Exactly," he confirmed.

"That's a good story. I like that. Do you know what would have made it better? If you had told me that it was going to happen."

"I wasn't sure if it was all going to pan out."

"If you keep another secret from me, you'll wish the Russians had poisoned you."

"I promise that I will not knowingly keep another secret from you."

She sighed, her eyes still closed. "You should have been a politician."

A man of a thousand secrets, he had forgotten more than he could remember, he could not be held accountable if a few fell between the cracks. She did not press him any further, the deepness of her breathing indicating that she had slipped into sleep. A sense of peace fell over him, anxious thought receding as he sat next to the bed, watching her eyes flutter slightly as she slept. Lips parted, soft breaths moving in and out, the crease in her brow slightly eased but still evident. For the first time in many years, he found himself in the stillness of the moment, not thinking of the past or the worry of what was to come, content to sit beside her and watch her slumber.

Unaware of the passage of time, he remained by her bed until his stomach rumbled, demanding his attention. Muscles protesting, he eased himself out of the chair, the toil of travel taking its toll on his constitution. An inspection of the kitchenette turned up an assortment of fruit and cheese. It was the least he could expect considering the price of the bungalow. He plopped a grape into his mouth and regarded the half-opened glass door. Not very wise to leave it ajar. They should not press their luck. It was even more essential that they stay on alert in foreign territory. He made a mental note to do a more detailed reconnoitre of the beach later in the day. Satisfied that she was resting comfortably, he took the tray of food and walked out onto the deck. A rattan chair welcomed him and he set the food on a wooden table as he relaxed into its comfort. The sun beat down, and though the heat was dissipated by the breeze, his body reacted to the unaccustomed warmth. He might have to start shedding clothes. The outline of the hotel that Ruth had originally booked was visible further down the shore. They would need to check that out too, the restaurant was very popular, though he predicted that Gavrik would be staying at one of the more exclusive villas. The bungalow that Harry had chosen was small and secluded. He closed his eyes. A cottage by the sea. True, they could not live there forever but they could enjoy it for the time being. Waves beat against the shore, the rhythmic sound soothing his nerves, lulling him into a semi-sleep. Strange visions of the half-awake world swam through his mind. A shadow moved near his shoulder and he started. He let out a low breath of relief when he saw that it was Ruth.

"You look much better," he observed. "Do you need something to eat?"

She sat down in the chair opposite him and picked out a slice of pineapple, a fruit that he had never really cared for. She pressed it against her lips before she drew it into her mouth. A trickle of juice ran down her chin and she wiped it away with her finger, licking off the residue. Harry stared at her with fascination. Perhaps he could acquire a taste for pineapple after all.

"Do you have an alias?"

Dragging his attention away from her mouth, he answered. "Arthur. I must say I take issue with the name Hennessy. A little too Irish for my liking. Though it is a fine cognac."

"Can I call you Artie?" she pulled at another piece of fruit, a slight smile on her lips as she mocked his name.

"Can I call you Lotte?"

The mischievous glint left her eyes as the threat of diminutive nickname was turned back on her. He gave her a blank look in return, calling her bluff.

"Perhaps we should call each other dear, or darling or honeybunch," she suggested. "That way we won't forget."

"Alright," he conceded. "Honeybunch."

Refusing to be drawn further into the quibble on pet names, she switched to inspecting the cheese and leaned back in her chair.

"I need a dress."

"You said that at the hospital. I thought you were delirious."

She half-heartedly picked at the fabric of her outfit. "I can't wear this."

"What's wrong with it?"

She frowned at him. "What is it with men and clothes?"

He plopped another grape into his mouth, subverting a smile. He rolled it around in his cheek with his tongue, relishing how easy it was to wind her up. He felt her eyes on him. Lips slightly parted, she studied his mouth as his tongue played with the grape. He met her eyes, chomping down decisively on the fruit, and she looked away. The breeze played with her hair, whipping it across her face. Somehow it had changed colour, lighter. She tucked the strands behind her ear.

"I can take a taxi into town."

"I'll take you," he said.

"I can find my own way."

Stop being such a mule, he said with a look. "I'm taking you."

It was not an offer. It was a stated fact. He would not let this woman out of his sight. Understanding his meaning, she nodded her agreement.

.

It was clear that his fate was to spend his entire life waiting for this woman. Harry settled himself into a padded chair that sat next to the shop window. He theorised that it had been placed there for all the erstwhile husbands forced to accompany their wives on shopping expeditions. He didn't mind, the vantage point afforded him a clear view of the street. A sandwich board sat on the pavement, highlighting the menu of the cafe next door, promising a number of different ales. Tables and chairs sat on a small patio, and the muffled voices of lunchtime diners wafted through the window. He could have offered to wait there and enjoyed a cool beverage. His eyes wandered down the street, noting the traffic patterns, the pace of pedestrians. He had recommended that particular dress shop, a seemingly random suggestion except for the fact that across the street, a few doors down, behind an unassuming facade, lay the offices of Aviva Management - a company specialising in corporate formation and wealth management services. He looked back into the shop, Ruth rummaging through the racks, her brow creased in concentration as she looked through the dresses. Perhaps if they stayed on the island long enough, the sun would ease the look of worry from her face. He had often wondered about her life in Cyprus, free of the strain of espionage, a handsome husband, a lively boy. What paradise had he ripped her from? He vowed to return some of it to her - in his own way.

Ruth pulled two dresses from the rack and studied each of them, debating which one to choose. A white one and a garment of light blue. Colours that he had never witnessed her wearing.

"Both," he raised his voice to carry across the shop.

She looked at him quizzically, confirming that she had heard him correctly. He nodded. She gathered up the two dresses and made her way toward the fitting rooms. Harry returned to his observation of the street. An older man left the Aviva building, salt and pepper hair, wearing a light linen suit. A senior partner, Harry concluded, Malcolm having researched the firm's members. The man crossed over to the cafe beside the dress shop and sat down at one of the empty tables. Harry noted the time on his watch, wondering if the man was a creature of habit.

"I'm set to go."

Harry quickly turned away from the window. It was the third time that day that she had surprised him. Either her shadowing abilities had greatly improved, or his vigilance had dulled. Having discovered him mid reconnaissance, she looked out the window, trying to figure out the subject of his scrutiny. She sat down on the arm of the chair and leaned across him, her stomach pressing against his shoulder. Her eyes narrowed as she realised what he had been watching.

"And here I thought you had picked this particular shop for its lovely frocks."

He ignored her pointed use of the word.

"That doesn't mean we can't accomplish other tasks while we're here. We're here for business."

Her arm was braced on the back of the chair as she leaned closer to him, a curious look on her face. His gaze fell to her lips, the memory of their taste rising to his mouth as he silently willed them closer. Recalcitrant woman that she was, she would enjoy proving him wrong, she would show him that they were not there only for business. He waited for the kiss but none came. His assumption of her was incorrect, and she sat back up.

"You're right."

He masked his disappointment. He would not have protested if she had proved him wrong. Reluctant to abandon the moment of strange intimacy, he looked up to her from his seated position.

"Aren't you getting a swimsuit?" he asked.

"Very funny."

"I have one."

She eyed him, trying to ascertain if he was joking or not. He gave nothing away. She bent forward, her face coming closer to his. They were sat in front of a window, visible to the street, it would be madness to engage in any form of affection. That was the allure, wasn't it? Stolen moments in the field, senses heightened by the unknown danger lurking around the corner. Her necklace dangled from her throat, cleavage visible along the vee of her dark dress. They could return to the bungalow, take up where they had left off a few nights ago. His hand slid along the armrest, muscles on the verge of drawing her in. Her face hovered near his, her breath brushing his cheek as she whispered in his ear.

"We're here on business, remember?"

The moment vanished with her words. She blithely stood up and walked back towards the racks. Harry remained in the chair, lamenting the lost opportunity. He settled himself in and returned to waiting.

.

Bursts of red and pink filtered through the thin skin of his closed eyelids, the lenses of his sunglasses doing little to block the intense rays of the sun. Sand shifted beneath his towel as he adjusted his position. Fingers of heat touched dormant parts of his skin, reaching places that had not seen the sun in years, the warmth seeping through layers of fascia, muscle finally relaxing. Only that morning he had shirked at the idea of walking around in shorts and here he was lounging on the beach. He blamed her for his slide into half-naked debauchery, though he was the one who had talked her into it. He rested his hand on his belly. He had long left the trimness of youth behind, but it did not matter. If he had his way, they would eventually know all of each other. He opened his eyes a crack; a leg crooked beside him, the curve of a calf temptingly close.

Don't touch, you'll break it.

He smiled. Shifting slightly, he hazarded a glance in her direction. A large brimmed hat covered most of her face, eyes hidden behind dark glasses, her attention consumed by a paperback that she had picked up somewhere. He reached over and place his hand on her leg, hard bone beneath his fingers, soft flesh against his hand. She started. She peered at him over the top of her sunglasses, and he returned her gaze, innocently.

"You look like your getting a burn." She returned her attention to her book. "You should put on some more sunscreen."

He propped himself up on his elbow. "Perhaps you could help me," he slyly suggested. "Or I could do you,"

"I think I'm fine." She turned a page in her book.

The sleeve of her tunic billowed in the breeze, the gauzy film covering her arms. The only flesh visible was that of her legs. What was the use of buying a swimsuit if only to cover it up? It was still more of her than he had previously viewed. He would take what she offered. He ran a few grains of sand between his fingers, surmising that she was still angry with him for the shock of his fake death. It was the force of habit that had held him back from divulging the details of the plan. He brushed the sand from his hand. Let her be prickly, it only made the thought of smoothing her out more appealing.

"I'm going to go in and see what the waters like. Care to join me?"

"I can't."

"I thought you liked swimming."

"I do but I have to mind the stitches."

"You could just wade in a bit. Shame to be here and not enjoy it."

She closed the book and considered his suggestion. "You go and I'll join you in a few minutes."

All was not lost. In a moment of impulse, he reached up and removed her hand from the book, bringing it to his lips. In their stop and start relationship, he had no idea where the boundaries lay, and the spontaneity of his act pleased him immensely. She ran a finger across his cheek, the delicacy of her touch causing his heart to soar. She smiled at him and then waved him off.

Rejuvenated by the sun, his muscles barely complained as he lifted himself from the ground. The hot sand burned the soles of his feet. He scanned the beach as he walked, taking in a quick surveillance; the distance to the adjacent properties, a boat moored a few docks over. The water lapped around his feet, and he paused for a moment to look back at her. The wind ruffled her sun hat but she remained engrossed in her book. There was no use in calling her name, the crashing waves would drown it out. Walking further out into the surf, he was pleasantly surprised that there was no need to brace for the onslaught of cold, or suffer chattering teeth at the frigid temperature. Instead, the water caressed him, welcoming him with its warm embrace. He had not been swimming in years and he waded out a fair distance before he dared to dive under the surface. Sound ceased as he pulled his way through the water, the weight of his body disappearing, signs of age washing away. Invigorated, he broke to the surface and took a gulp of air, wiping the water away from his face.

He looked back at the beach. A sun hat skitted along the shoreline. She was gone.


	14. Chapter 14

_A/N- A wee bit of M content near the end of the chapter. (okay, maybe more than a wee bit) Thanks for reading!_

* * *

Traction was impossible but she had no choice. Sandals slipping, Ruth ran along the beach, ignoring the tiny grains of sand that scratched at the soles of her feet, heading for the sanctuary of dunes and tall grass. For a fleeting moment, she had sat on the beach, immobilized by the sight of the man. Harry had been out in the surf, and she could not figure out how to call to him without attracting the attention of the man she wanted to elude. It was Eddie, she was certain. The crown of his head had reflected the sun, the dark blue of a tattoo had been visible on his neck. Stunned by the sighting, she had thought it a mirage; there was no possible way the could have followed her, but intuition warned her and she followed her impulse to flee. They had chosen a spot a fair distance from the cottage and she made her way toward it, hidden behind the grass, praying that Harry would realise the situation and follow her. The silhouette of their bungalow came into view, and she picked up her pace only to stop in mid-stride. The sliding door on the deck was open. She was positive that Harry had closed it when they left, giving her a brief lecture on the importance of security, a conversation in which she had feigned interest but not taken seriously. Oh, how she hated it when he was right. Branches pricked at her legs as she pulled her body as far into a bush as humanly possible. Peering through the leaves, she saw no sign of Eddie. Doubt crept in. Perhaps it had only been her overactive imagination, heightened by Harry's paranoia.

Fingers wrapped around her arm. She opened her mouth to scream but a hand was placed over it.

"Why did you leave without telling me?" Harry hissed at her.

Her body collapsed in relief. "I saw Eddie."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Fairly. It looked like him."

Rivulets of water dripped down Harry's neck and chest indicating that he had come straight from the sea without stopping to towel off. He stood with her in the brambles, matching her intense whispers.

"Why didn't you get me?"

"I didn't know how to attract your attention without alerting him."

"Do you know how worried I was? What was going through my head?"

"I'm sorry. I just thought you would figure it out and return to the bungalow." She pointed to the cottage. "Look, the door is open."

"Shit." He let go of her arm and craned his neck to get a better look.

"Have we been compromised again?"

"Stay here," he ordered.

"What are you going to do? You can't go in there!" She grabbed his hand as he moved away. "Don't leave me here."

"Alright, but stay close. Let's go around the front. See if they're still inside. They might have trashed the place and left."

They moved around to the front of the bungalow and edged slowly toward the door. Harry tried the knob, it was unlocked. With one arm placed across her body as a shield, he gently swung the door open. They walked in with silent steps. The faint click of a keyboard greeted them.

Sitting at the little dining table was Malcolm.

"Christ Malcolm, you scared the living daylights out of us. How did you get in here?"

"The usual way," he answered, perplexed that Harry would even ask such a question. "I came in and the air conditioning was on. You realise that your electricity is metered. If you go over the cap they'll charge you."

Malcolm looked up from his screen and ran an eye over the two spooks, an eyebrow raised as he noticed their lack of attire. A puddle of water had pooled around Harry's feet. Ruth pulled at the flimsy shift that covered her bathing suit, covering her legs, attempting to regain her dignity. It was probably too late; Malcolm had no doubt come to his own conclusions.

"I'll change."

"Yes." Harry agreed.

She and Harry stepped forward at the same time, shoulders colliding as they both headed toward the bedroom.

"You first," he gallantly offered.

"No, you're dripping wet."

"I'll get my stuff and change in the washroom."

Old habits die hard, and her hands passed over the newly acquired summer dresses in favour of her standby black garment. They were there for business, and she felt compelled to reassert her professionalism in front of Malcolm; banish the impression that she had Harry were on some sort of holiday. The men's voices filtered to her through the wall as she slipped her arms into the sleeves, acutely aware of their presence. The wind had played havoc with her hair, and she ran a quick brush through it, doing more damage than good. She pulled on her stockings, inwardly acknowledging the absurdity of doing so in the heat. Marginally satisfied with her appearance, she returned to the outer room. Harry, back into his informal island clothes, frowned as he registered her choice of dress. Even Malcolm wore a short-sleeved shirt. The men continued to talk as she walked toward them.

"I did a quick recon of the offices," said Harry. " The senior partner had lunch around two."

"We'll aim for that time then."

"Ruth believes she saw one of her captors," Harry added.

"I've been thinking," Ruth interjected. "They told me that they were from Six. Is it possible they're here because they're part of the team shadowing Gavrik."

"I doubt it. In fact, I don't believe these men are even with Six. It just doesn't sit right."

"Is Gavrik here yet?" Malcolm asked.

"I don't know. He's probably flying in chartered like I did. There's no way to track that." Harry crossed to the open door. "If he is here, chances are he'll show up at one of the finer restaurants. I've got one in mind that we're going to check out."

Ruth's ears perked up at his plan, the trip to a restaurant was news to her.

"You might want to change," Harry casually mentioned as he motioned in her direction.

"Are you joining us?" she asked Malcolm, doing her best to ignore the look of consternation that Harry threw towards her.

Malcolm's eyes darted between her and Harry. Though the nuance of human behaviour sometimes eluded him, he correctly assessed the situation. "I think I'll pass, if you don't mind. Feeling a bit tired from the flight."

Harry closed the glass door, clicking the lock shut, pursing his lips to hide a smile. He spoke over his shoulder to Ruth. "And don't unpack anything."

She frowned, chafing under another one of his seemingly arbitrary security measures. She begrudgingly returned to the bedroom to change her dress.

.

Even in the dim light of the restaurant, she felt exposed, unknown eyes watching her, images of Eddie lurking behind a palm tree playing in her mind. She worried the edges of her napkin with her fingers, nerves displayed for the world to see. A few tables over, another couple arrived, and Ruth peered at them over Harry's shoulder. The woman took her seat revealing an older man behind her. Ruth immediately tensed as she glimpsed the man's balding head. She held her breath until she confirmed that it was not Eddie. Perhaps the man on the beach had not been her captor after all, merely a spectre fueled by stress and exhaustion. Harry studied her over the top of his menu.

"Relax," he whispered. "Or else you will draw attention to yourself."

Taking a deep breath, she forced her shoulders to lower from their rigid state. The menu offered her a place of refuge, and she used it to hide not only from possible surveillance but also from Harry. Her bare arms added to her feeling of exposure; she should have worn a jacket. She had decided on the light blue dress, leaving the white one for her mission. Somehow, in the candlelight, it was far more revealing than it had been under the fluorescent bulbs of the changing room; the scoop of the neckline far lower than she had originally thought. Or perhaps it was the way that Harry's eyes roamed over the fabric, or more to the point, what was revealed by the absence of fabric. Legs without stockings, arms without sleeves, cleavage on display; it was far outside her level of comfort. The waiter arrived and took their orders, stealing away the menu and leaving nothing for Ruth to hide behind. In the absence of anything to pull over her decolletage, she fiddled with the chain at her throat, hoping that her hand would hide the plunging neckline. Harry picked up the bottle that sat on the table.

"More wine?" he asked, the neck of the bottle hovering over her glass.

"It might react with the medications."

He filled her glass anyway. She took a small sip, rationing her drink to draw it out. The last thing she needed was a hangover, she needed to have her wits about her tomorrow. The sip of wine did nothing to quell her nerves, and she scanned the restaurant with a restless eye. Feeling the scrutiny of Harry's gaze, she relented and looked back at him. The top buttons of his shirt undone, the skin on his chest showed a deep pink against the white cotton. She tapped the corresponding area on her throat.

"Looks like you got a bit of a burn."

"You did warn me."

"Yes, I did." She gave him a level look, letting the lesson sink in.

"I'd like to know how you managed to get a tan even though you were covered up."

"It's probably just the lighting in here."

The waiter returned with their entrees, skillfully sliding the plates onto the table. Harry looked down at his choice, a grilled swordfish, seemingly disappointed that a sword had not come with the meal. She had ordered the pan seared snapper. The fish flaked beneath her fork and she wondered if their choices were evocative of their personalities.

"This is nice," she observed. "Almost like being a normal couple."

"Almost," he agreed.

"Do you think we could ever be like that?" she asked wistfully, a touch of humour in her voice. "Normal?"

Harry chewed thoughtfully on his food but did not answer. He closed his eyes as if he were trying to remember something. "Do you know the name of this tune? I've been hearing it everywhere lately."

Until that moment, the ambient music had only been a background hum and she frowned, trying to pick out the strains of the melody through the conversation and tinkling plates.

"Sounds like In the Still of the Night."

"No, I don't think it is," he counted. "That was by some doo-wop group."

"This one is Cole Porter. You're thinking of the song from the fifties. That's probably why you're more familiar with it."

His fork paused on the way to his mouth and his eyes rose to hers. "And why would I be more familiar with a song from the nineteen fifties?"

It had been an offhand remark said without intent, but she had obviously struck a nerve. "I mean, just aware of music from that time, the Cole Porter version is from the thirties and…" She quickly cut off a piece of her fish and plopped it in her mouth. "This snapper is quite good."

He returned to his meal, seemingly dissatisfied with her explanation, but she could see the smile tugging at his lips. He had always taken a perverse pleasure in her discomfort. She searched for another subject.

"Have you thought about what we should do when we get back to England?" She took another sip of her wine, temporarily forgetting her vow of moderation, lulled by the ambience and the company. Once again, her question was left unanswered, his pointed silence serving to encroach on her sense of well being. "Harry?" she prodded.

Unable to meet her gaze, he cleared his throat. "We're not going back."

She put down her glass, the warm glow of the evening fading. "What do you mean?"

"We're both dead."

"Yes, but surely we can have new lives back in England."

"The chances of us living there undetected are pretty marginal."

"But once we've figured out what these people are up to we should be in the clear. That was the purpose of coming here; so I could get my life back."

"You said it yourself - they'll never let us rest. Whether it's the Service, the government or a ghost from my past."

"So you thought we could just become ghosts instead? You could have asked me how I felt about that."

"I thought it was understood."

The food had lost its appeal and she studied the napkin in her lap, looking for a way to articulate the formless emotions that swirled in her. "I used to read about royalty in exile, and I thought how glamorous, how romantic. But having experienced it, I know there is nothing romantic about being in exile. It is cold and lonely and full of debilitating homesickness. I spent my entire time on Cyprus wanting to return."

Life drained from Harry's face, his body completely still, mouth drawn in silence.

"I told George that we didn't need to marry because we were already committed, that it was an archaic custom, but the truth of it was because in my heart I knew that my life with him was temporary. That someday I would return to England. Even though my name wasn't cleared, even though you never came for me, I would somehow get back. Though I didn't think it would happen in such a horrific way."

"I thought you wanted a life together." His voice was low and flat.

"Yes, I do." she quickly assured him. " But you're asking me to sign the contract without even knowing the details."

He leaned across the table, his words an urgent whisper. "I'm asking you to trust me."

"Sometimes, I think that the last decision I was able to make for myself was when I left. I saved you, we thwarted Mace, and as sad as it was, it was also empowering. But after that, everything that has happened to me has been because of someone else's actions. I want to be in charge of my life." Her voice quivered with barely controlled passion. "I hope you can understand why I want to go back. It may be cold and damp and a bloody mess but it's home." Grabbing her glass, she downed the remaining dregs of her wine. She set the empty glass down and pushed it across the table. "I would like some more."

Harry picked up the bottle and spoke softly as he refilled her glass. "For once I would like to not be at cross purposes with you.

"Well, we wouldn't be if you consulted me about matters that concerned my life."

"This isn't the best venue for this discussion."

She did not respond. She felt like a petulant child but she could think of no other way to express her feelings. Her head spun, the effects of bolting back the alcohol. Harry looked at her, his eyes drawn to a spot over her shoulder. His body tensed and his jaw hardened. She shifted in her seat trying to look in the direction of his gaze.

"What is it?" she asked.

"It's Ariadne Kolos."

Ruth blinked processing the information, the direction of the conversation, like their lives, changing on a dime. "What is she doing here?"

"I don't know. The team was supposed to keep an eye on her. I can't believe they would allow her to leave the country." Harry reached into his pocket. "We need to get out of here. She doesn't know who you are. Settle up the bill and I'll head out the back way."

"If we're ghosts, does it matter if we pay?"

Harry ignored her quip and peeled off the estimated amount from his billfold. "Meet me at the car."

Without any further words, he stood and walked away from the table, keeping his head down as he moved to the back of the restaurant. Abandoned, Ruth sat staring at the pile of bills. She couldn't blame him for wanting to leave so quickly. In fact, there was no reason why she too could not leave. What was to stop her from returning to England? She had a new identity. Surely, years of intelligence work had given her the tools to stay off of the radar. The waiter returned, inquiring if she was interested in dessert. She asked for the bill.

Eschewing the route that Harry had used, curiosity getting the better of her, she walked toward the main entrance. At a table in the corner sat a woman, blonde hair arranged in an artfully careless bun. Ruth's feet slowed as she took in the flattering lines of the woman's white dress, the outfit accessorised with expensive jewellery. Her fingers absently brushed the inferior material of her dress, it's previous appeal diminishing. Harry had been to dinner with that woman, sat at an intimate table, and for all she knew, showered her with compliments. Images of Elena Gavrik and her immaculately coiffed hair surfaced. Deep at the base of her spine, a familiar emotion awoke; the green-eyed monster that would not be dismissed. A bald man walked toward the table and Ruth froze. It was not Eddie, though this man looked disturbingly similar. His eyes scanned the room, glancing over Ruth, showing no signs of recognition. He nodded toward the entrance. A man walked in. Gavrik.

Feet moving of their own volition, Ruth spun around and brushed her hair over her cheek to hide her face. She did not stop to double check what her eyes had told her. She would know that man anywhere. Focusing on her breathing, she headed to the back of the restaurant following in Harry's footsteps.

Gravel crunched under her feet as she trotted toward the waiting car. She opened the door and slipped in.

"Gavrik showed up."

Harry's hands froze on the ignition as he stared at her. "Well, that makes things more interesting doesn't it."

"He went to Ariadne's table."

He slapped his hand against the wheel. "I knew it."

"Are they hatching something together?"

"We'll find out tomorrow."

He started the car and they drove away in silence, the conversation at the dinner table still lingering between them.

.

The night breeze crept through her bedroom window, stirring the curtains and dissipating the humidity. It was open purely as an act of protest to Harry's command for it to remain closed. He wasn't the only one who could break the rules. Ruth lay on her bed staring into the darkness, her eyes following a sliver of moonlight as it made its path through the heavens. She refused to look at the bedside clock, it would only tell her how long she had lain awake and how little time she had left to sleep. In the distance, the surf rolled with a calming regularity. At any other time, the soothing white noise would have lulled her to sleep, but her mind teemed with the script for the next day, enacting possible conversations. The still of the night only served to amplify the thoughts in her head.

Still of the night.

Sighing, she rolled over and placed a fist of frustration into the pillow, plumping it up. She had no idea what had possessed her to go off on her rant about England. She must learn to curb her waspish ways. They didn't need to be at odds; all this consternation could be avoided if Harry communicated his thoughts, though it might be easier for him to lop off his right hand than to convey the inner workings of his mind. She tugged at the tee shirt that stood in for her nighttime attire. It was strange not to feel any dressing over her wound, the doctor having recommended that she leave it free when applying the antiseptic cream. In all of her shopping forays, it had completely slipped her mind to buy any sort of pyjamas. An offhand remark about her lack of sleepwear had secured the offer of a tee shirt from Harry. Her initial reaction had been to refuse, but the idea of walking around in her underwear was even less appealing. The shirt carried the scent of an unknown laundry detergent, faintly lemon, mixed with something chemical. She tried to imagine Harry doing such a mundane task as the laundry. No, she was certain he sent everything to the cleaners. She tugged the shirt down over her hips. He had worn that shirt, his skin beneath it, chest touching the fabric that now lay across her breasts. Stop it, she scolded. She would never get to sleep if her thoughts strayed into that territory.

The glasses of wine and the heat had left her dehydrated. She licked her lips, yearning for a cool glass of water. She vacillated whether or not she should venture out to the kitchen. The longer she lay convincing herself that she didn't need water, the more her system demanded it. With a huff of resignation, she threw back the covers and hauled herself out of the bed. She would be as quiet as a mouse.

A peek through the crack in the door revealed a room at rest. No sound, not even the whisper of Harry's breathing. She tiptoed across the space, carefully picking her way through the dimness. Curtains drawn, patio doors closed and locked against intruders, her only guide was the shaft of moonlight that shone through the kitchen window. Misjudging the small passage between the counter and the wall, she banged the side of her hip, breath expelling with alarm. Reflexively, she covered her side, though the corner of the counter had come nowhere near her wound. She used the counter to her advantage, running her hand along its edge until she came to the sink and an empty glass. The faucet squeaked as water gurgled from the tap. Looking out the window, she hurriedly gulped down her drink.

"Everything alright?"

The glass almost fell from her hand as she jumped with fright. She turned around and found Harry standing near the edge of the counter.

"Sorry, I just wanted a drink."

"Can't sleep?"

She nodded. "Thinking about tomorrow."

"I couldn't sleep either."

She stepped away from the window, moonlight streaming in, revealing him in more detail. Her mouth opened and she set down the glass. He was only in his boxer shorts. Disconcerted by his state of undress, she said the obvious.

"You're not wearing a shirt."

"It was chafing against the sunburn."

She swallowed a half laugh, nerves mixed with schadenfreude, joined together with a host of other reactions. Fascination, arousal, a hint of panic - she fought to suppress them all, but they filtered through in the crack of her voice.

"Maybe there's some lotion we can put on it."

"I've already tried."

Strange, only that afternoon he had done his best to cajole her into covering him with sunscreen. Unaccounted disappointment filled her, an opportunity lost. After all, she did not want to see him suffer. It would have helped to relieve his pain. Cool lotion on her hands, his parched skin hot beneath her fingers. She inhaled shakily.

"I should be getting back to bed."

"Me too."

Neither of them moved.

"How is your side?" he asked.

"Much better."

"Good. Good."

The strained attempt at conversation faltered into silence, and sensing that he had nothing else to say, she stepped forward with the intention of heading to the bedroom. Harry, standing in the gap between the counter and the wall, made no effort to move out of the way.

"I just have to…" She made a motion with her hand, indicating that she needed to step by him.

"Of course."

He shifted slightly, barely creating an opening. She stepped into it, brushing against him as she moved, turning to face him as she squeezed through. Without warning, his arm came up, his palm coming to rest on the wall effectively halting her passage. Panic returned, amplified by his proximity, the wings of her heart beating rapidly against the cage of her ribs. She had known him for years, she should have sensed that there was something brewing beneath his behaviour. His face half shadowed in darkness, she could not read his intent. He leaned into her, his mouth hovering near hers. A different thirst arose within her, and she gave an involuntary flick of her tongue over her lips. Silence descended, waiting for him to speak.

"Is that why you said no when I asked you to marry me?" He whispered his words, though there was no one to hear. "Because you knew it would be temporary."

Frowning, she rifled through her memory, realising that he was referring back to their conversation at the restaurant. "I said no because I thought we didn't deserve that kind of life."

"And yet, you put an offer in on a cottage by the sea." Dark eyes drilled into her, daring her to refute her hypocrisy.

She couldn't. She couldn't explain how the debacle with the Gavriks had shifted her priorities. She slumped back against the wall but there was nowhere to hide. He moved in closer, awaiting her answer. When none was forthcoming, he continued.

"We get what we think we deserve."

Heat emanated from his sunburnt skin; her body acutely aware of his chest, his legs. Her fingers flexed at her sides, sensing the nearness of his thigh. The fabric of her tee shirt was far too flimsy to withstand such proximity, her body working of its own accord, his effect on her evident in the peak of her nipples beneath the cotton. She closed her eyes. This had always been his effect on her, even in their early days. Senses heightened, she waited, hoping for escape, but craving capture. He let his hand drop away, returning it to his side.

"You're free to go where ever you want. Back to England, if you wish."

The absence of his heat was immediate. She teetered forward, stepping away from the support of the wall. Dazed, dejected that he had not pursued something more, she stood, confusion playing on her face. The strings that bound them together snapped, and she was back on the bench with him, that day he had told her to go to the Home Office, overturning her expectations. He had set her adrift again. He leaned back against the counter.

"What do you think you deserve, Ruth?"

The question echoed in her head. She wanted a home, she wanted him. Why were the two desires incompatible? She was tired of talking, tired of running and getting nowhere. She stared at his chest, the fine hairs catching the stray beams of light. How many more chances would they be given? She overrode her need for analysis and raised her hand, placing the tips of her fingers on his chest. The muscle near his shoulder flinched, the tender skin sensitive to her touch. She did not remove her finger but let it rest against his skin.

"You're burning up," she whispered.

"I'm not dressed for the heat," he answered, echoing her words from the airport.

They remained motionless, neither pulling away or coming closer, her small gesture binding them. She had lost track of the number of times he had been torn away, her spirit broken by the loss of him. She placed the flat of her hand on his chest, and his breath deepened, the expanse of his torso apparent, free from the strictures of a suit. Heat burned through her palm, penetrating her skin down to muscle and blood. He was a part of her. The thud of his heart increased. Her fingers curled on his pectoral muscle, wanting to reach in and find his heart, grab hold and keep it. She looked up at him.

"Does it hurt much?"

"I'll let you know."

His lips descended on hers with a stunning confidence. She gasped, any further conversation halted, her words silenced by his mouth. She had not voiced her intentions, stated what she deserved; he had made a presumption. His tongue invaded her being and thought grew meaningless. A quick shift of his body and she was pinned against the wall, centre displaced, her hand reaching out to his hip for balance. Swaying against her, his one arm sought the wall for support, his other arm harnessing her waist. The euphoria of cool skin against hot overcame her, the hardness of his thigh, the muscle of his arm. He twisted her around, leaning her against the counter. Her arms moved around him, clinging to him, her senses reeling. She rose on her toes, asking for more, drinking in the potent drug that was him, eclipsing the mess of her life. Refuting any signs of age, he lifted her off of her toes and onto the counter. Her eyes opened as her mind grappled with his wordless suggestion, body not caring where he had her. Mouth on her throat, his hand moved to her breast, cupping the soft flesh, thumb grazing across her nipple. Head back, allowing him access, she succumbed to the abandon that he demanded. He stood between her legs, pulling her in and she let him. Fingers running under her shirt, sliding up her backbone, tugging at the material. A blink of sanity, and her mind returned.

"There's a window here."

"You're right," he conceded.

She smiled. He had listened to her. Slipping a hand beneath her, he lifted her from the counter and took a step back.

"You can't carry me," she protested.

"Yes, I can." His claim filled with imperious ego.

Stupid man, he would wrench his back or something worse. She wriggled free from his grasp, her body sliding against his, his arms pulling her back in, a moan leaving his mouth as his lips found hers. He backed her up, or as she wanted to believe, she led him through the room, a slow dance of twisting and turning past corners, crossing the threshold of the bedroom. They paused by the bed, his confidence checked as his fingers played with the hem of her shirt. A breeze sighed through the window moving the curtain, the sounds of the sea filtering through.

"You left the window open," he softly chided.

"I wanted some air."

Her hands moved alongside his on her shirt, urging him to lift the material, distracting him from her breach in security. Any excuse for hesitation and the moment would be lost. He shimmied the fabric up and over her head, a low groan of appreciation escaping at the revelation of her body. Flaws were forgiven in the darkness, but she squirmed beneath his gaze, batting away twinges of self-consciousness, resisting the urge for modesty. He had shown no qualms in revealing himself, though his inner heart was yet to be mined. He lowered her onto the bed with surprising gentleness, a dramatic departure from his earlier urgency. Laying beside her, one leg over hers, he propped himself up on his elbow, keeping his full weight off of her.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm on painkillers."

"That's not exactly what a man wants to hear."

She smiled in the darkness, her hand on his cheek, a caress asking for indulgence. There was no time for thinking, that led to analysis and doubt. She pulled him back down. His hand delved between her thighs, fingers sliding under the material, hooking around and pulling it down, her eagerness for him apparent as his hands returned to explore. She did not want it to be over so soon. She pushed against him, rolling him over onto his back.

"Wait for it," she whispered.

His body stilled, his breath a ragged huff. "I dreamt of this." His words were laced with wonder. "In the darkest nights when there was no hope, you came to me in my dreams and you said that."

She looked down at him, the fringe of her hair brushing his throat, the confession of hopelessness allowing her a window into his grief. She wanted to erase it all. She pressed her lips against his chest, over his heart, easing the pain of absence, taking delicate consideration for his sunburn.

"Tell me if I hurt you," she whispered playfully.

"You already have."

Her throat constricted at his words, the vulnerability of his admission piercing her core; she had the power to hobble this titan of a man. She harboured her own scars from his careless words, inaction, neglect. They would do better. Banishing thoughts of sadness, she covered him with her body, searching for the elixir that would dull their pain. He grew hard beneath her hand, and his lips found her ear.

"Let me have you now."

She would give herself over to him on her own terms. Straddling him, her fingers guided his way, a bolt of ecstasy shooting through her as he penetrated her depths, nerves dancing in delight. With slow undulation, she rocked on top of him, his hips rising to meet her. Inhibitions abandoned, the promise of freedom so enticing; a life on the run might be worth it, if the reward was a pleasure such as this. His hands rested on her hips, stilling her movements. He nudged her, and understanding his desire, she rolled over onto her back. Minding wounds, delivered by fate and self-inflicted, he hovered above her, drinking her in. Tender fingers charted a final trail over her breasts, mouth following, tongue flicking over sensitive flesh. It was his turn to linger; satisfaction made more potent by delay. Hunger rising, he eased into her, fighting release with slow control. They fell into a mutual rhythm, punctuated by his staccato breaths and her moans of encouragement. The muscles of her side relaxed, all pain forgotten, drunk on the endorphins that he aroused within her. Unable to support himself any longer, he dropped to his elbows, his weight pressing against her, the heat of his chest burning her breasts. She clung to him, absorbing his essence; she need never be cold again. Nerves rose to the surface, opening up to the sun, expanding as the friction between them increased. The sound of the surf rose in her ears and she cried out as she crested with it, floating down. He thrust into her, sustaining the sensation, diving in and catching her as their bodies shook with surrender. Arms weak, his body collapsed on top of her, perspiration slick against her skin.

"Stay with me," he whispered.

Her limbs sunk into the mattress, sleepy corners of her mind recognising the familiar sound of his words.

"I dreamt of this too."

Consciousness slipped away as he wrapped around her. Two dreams, now one.


	15. Chapter 15

_A/N - This was supposed to be the last chapter but it started to get a bit unwieldy so I thought it better to break it up. So there is still one more to go. To those of you still following along, many thanks!_

* * *

The world tilts, swaying on its axis, north and south tipping in and out of light but the centre remains constant. Daybreak on the island varied little from season to season, the morning sun tiptoeing into the room with uncommon consideration. Harry glanced at the numbers on the clock, a hair past six according to Eastern Daylight time, eleven in the morning according to his body. He turned away, ignoring the ceaseless march of time across various zones, better to study the head that lay on his shoulder. A soft breeze skirted the curtains, the open window contravening all his security measures. What was he to do with this woman? The muscle in his shoulder twinged, the ache of a phantom wound received in another life, serving as an intermittent reminder of the man who had caused it. The echo of a wound lasted far longer than the initial pain. Circulation slowing, his body longed to move, the arm that lay beneath her growing numb. But he would remain still, waiting for her to rouse, the pleasure of her closeness too precious to relinquish. He dare not close his eyes lest it all prove to be a dream; his mind the only thing permitted to move, it wandered over thoughts and suppositions. Yes, they could return home, find another cottage by the sea, after all, they were not on the run, not yet. But the voice of doubt and mistrust that he had carried with him since his early days in the field would not be silenced. No matter what he did, they would pull him back in, keep him close, better to guard his trove of secrets. Look at what had happened to Clive McTaggert. The only way to make a clean break would be to disappear. It would be easy to ignore the voice of caution, there was no imminent threat, the country was not in peril, lives were not at risk, rather it would be the death of a thousand cuts, unnoticed and overlooked until the entire body was bled dry. At what point would he stop; there was no end. The wheel of politics would always turn, the insidious machinations of backroom brokers, moving in the dark like scurrying beetles, banish one and fifty remained. He could spend the rest of his life defending the crown but at what cost. He sighed, his chest rising with the air of uncertainty, causing her head to move. She stirred, legs rubbing against his, sheets caught between their limbs. To his delight, she did not pull away, but buried herself even closer into him, as if the scent of his skin promised the door back into the land of sleep. Unsure if she was fully awake, he returned his body to stillness. All his dreams, awash in sentiment and longing, had not prepared him for the smaller details of her form revealed in the light of that room. The softness of her skin against his, the weight of her leg, the ridge of bone that stood out on her shoulder blade; he noted them all and packed them away in the corner of his mind, safe in memory should he lose her again. It was a fear that had accompanied him for years, he had grown accustomed to its weight in his psyche and could not let it go. Even now, beside her. It would follow him to all points of the globe.

"New York," he murmured, not realising that he had said the city out loud until her head moved.

Clinging to sleep, she hummed, her hand moving lazily across his belly and coming to rest on his chest. He closed his eyes at her touch, his skin tingling under her splayed fingers. What could she hear in her half-dream state?

"The spirit of Atlanticism," he whispered. The words were barely audible, a subliminal suggestion that he hoped would enter her ears and sway her mind. Silence lingered and he assumed that she had fallen back to sleep.

"The grand tour," she whispered, her lips moving on his chest, her commemorate response indicating that she had not been sleeping.

He had hoped that she had forgotten the confession of his notion to visit Paris and the greater cities of Europe. Obviously, the conversation from that evening had lived in her memory with the same detail that it had remained in his. He had humoured her that night, thinking that she was merely being her enticingly contrary self, the usual resistance of will that she showed before eventually giving into him. In hindsight, it was an omen, a playful conversation that portended the gulf that would separate them. The past never dies, it lay beside him waiting. He pushed it away.

"We could always go to New York," he suggested.

Fully crossing over into wakefulness, she adjusted her head, her lashes tickling his skin as her eyes adjusted to the morning light.

"But Paris is on the continent," she countered, her meaning clear; it was closer to the UK.

"But the Americas are bigger," he asserted, his meaning also clear; a larger land meant far more places in which to disappear.

She raised her head and placed her chin on his chest. "When do we have to decide?"

He craned his neck to look down at her. A fringe of hair fell across her face, and his fingers looped a strand behind her ear. He had already decided on the destination, he was only trying to make the idea more enticing to her.

"We should get up before we have any unexpected visitors," he cautioned.

"It's still early," she protested, stretching against him with a lazy yawn.

Whether by innocence or design, the movement had an effect on him, his predawn lassitude instantly replaced by a more rapacious desire. If words would not persuade her, he had other means. Without telegraphing his intentions, he rolled her over onto her back, the quick movement causing her eyes to open wide with surprise.

"Yes, it is," he agreed. "Very early."

The sheet fell away from her breasts, exposing her side; the red scratch of her scar visible against the white linen. The world tilted on its axis. Instantly, his mind returned to that day on the fens, the complete and utter desolation of the moment. The promise of long sought after happiness seeping through his fingers along with her blood. His hand hovered over the spot.

"It looks worse than it is," she assured him. "It feels much better."

He closed his eyes and kissed her. She was wrong, they were meant to have a life together. The surf sounded in the distance as he plunged into her, losing himself in her warmth. He must remember to close the window.

.

Waves rolled into the shore, varying strata of blue moving beneath the sun. A lone sailboat crossed the horizon, sails outstretched as it glided over the waves. The allure of a life sailing the seas. In another time, he would have been a buccaneer, discovering these uncharted islands. He smiled at his fantasy. No, he believed too wholly in the rule of law, though he navigated the boundaries of its outer limits; he preferred a more subtle form of piracy. Harry adjusted his sunglasses, his eyes still unaccustomed to the staggering amount of light, struck by the perfection of the day. He pushed away the nagging sense of foreboding that always accompanied the sublime. As he waited for her on the deck of the cottage, he picked at the tray of fruit, it's selection slightly depleted from the previous day. Choosing a piece of pineapple, his mouth puckered at the combination of tart and sweet. It was a taste that he could grow to like. The sliding door clicked along its track and Ruth stepped out carrying two cups and a small glass coffee maker, the operation of which had completely alluded him. Steam rose, mixing with the warm air as she poured them each a cup. If his dreams had extended past the bedroom they would have surely continued onto a setting such as this. He leaned back and sipped his coffee, appreciating the view both scenic and otherwise. She wore the white dress, sleeves of gauze fluttering at her shoulders, wings that she might fly away. Her hair was still wet, tucked behind her ears, a stray rivulet of water running down her throat and onto her collar bone. Where in the past his eyes would have stopped at the seams and hems of her clothes and given over to his imagination, they now roamed under the fabric, remembering what lay beneath. Aware of his gaze, she shifted self consciously in her seat.

"Is something wrong?" she asked.

"That's a nice frock."

Frowning, she ignored his comment and carved off a slice of cheese. "I'm still nervous about today."

"You'll be fine."

She canted her head, the look in her eyes asking him to remember every other time she had ventured out into the field. She only needed to trust her instincts, step out of her head and react in the moment. He knew she was entirely capable of holding her own.

"We can go over everything when Malcolm arrives," he assured her. "Until then we can enjoy the view."

She did not look out into the ocean but studied him. He braced himself, waiting for her to unwrap their earlier conversation, mentally preparing a list of reasons why they could not return home. To his relief, it did not unfold as he expected.

"Your burn doesn't look as bad today."

He looked at his forearms. The angry crimson of the night before had settled into a more forgiving pink. She reached across the table, her palm open in invitation. He placed his hand in hers. The skin of her arm had taken on a dusky hue, and he was once again baffled how she had managed to absorb enough light to activate her melanin. Like everything else, they couldn't even agree on how to react to the sun.

"This has been nice." Her voice had the wistful quality of someone bidding goodbye to a dream.

His thumb caressed the palm of her hand. "We don't have to leave. We don't have to do any of this."

She looked away, the breeze drying her hair and lifting it away from her neck. "So you would be okay with Gavrik carrying on with whatever he has planned. All of it officially sanctioned by the government."

They may not react to the elements in the same manner, but at their cores, the ideals that mattered the most, that was where they agreed. She knew his sticking place, that he could not walk away from the battle and leave the spoils of war to Gavrik. He sat holding her hand, his finger running in reflective circles over her skin. There was no desk between them, only a small wooden table, any illusion of power that he still retained was hollow, his command left behind with his suit, hanging in a closet. He was an agent in the field as much as she was, off book, in the wind, working on behalf of a government that believed they were dead. He squeezed her hand, deferring to her comment. She was right; he had to see this one last mission through.

A knock sounded on the front door. No doubt it was Malcolm erring on the side of caution, learning his lesson from the day before about letting himself in, wary of walking into anything of a compromising nature. A look of contrition crossed Harry's face and he met her eyes in silent acknowledgement. Once they opened the door, the little bubble they had found would disappear, paradise lost. She looked down at their hands. There were no rings, no symbols of binding them to mutual fidelity; he wanted to think they needed no such contrivances, the ties that bound them far stronger than mere tokens. She removed her hand from his. There was no turning back.

Mustering his energy, Harry removed his sunglasses and rose from the table. He entered the bungalow, Ruth following closely behind. Halfway across the room, he stopped. Without any warning, he pivoted on his heels, her body crashing into him. Stunned, she offered no resistance when he backed her up against the wall. His mouth descended on hers, the insistent pressure of his lips entreating her to stay with him. Slipping into her mouth, his tongue promised the pleasures of another tantalizing paradise, she only need follow him wherever he led. Inwardly, he knew such carnal temptations would not be enough to persuade her to stay by his side, let alone keep her, it was madness to offer an abstract life to a woman of substance but the thought of losing her again filled him with despair. Surely, she must feel the same. His fingers dug into the flesh of her waist, they had almost lost each other once, ships abandoned at sea, dead to the world, they needed to stay together. He lifted his head, her face close to his, her cheeks flushed.

"What was that for?" she asked breathlessly.

"Just in case."

He released his hold on her and stepped away, but she reached out and grabbed his shirt collar pulling him back in.

"In case what?" she whispered. "Harry? What aren't you telling me?"

He placed his hand over hers and gently removed it. "It will all be fine."

The doorbell rang, and he made to answer it, her low breath of frustration following him. It may have only been a sigh but he heard the word liar. He couldn't be certain if she had said it or if it was the whisper of his conscience.

"Are we all set." Malcolm entered, annoyingly chipper. Setting up his kit on the table, he clapped his hands together. "Right now, where shall we begin."

Harry turned in search of Ruth. She had disappeared back out onto the deck and stood looking out into the sea. Perhaps to collect herself after his ravishment, his ego suggested, or to distance herself from whatever crazy scheme he had concocted, his mind countered. She straightened her shoulders and returned laden with the cups and coffee pot. She held up the Bodom, offering a cup to Malcolm. He shook his head.

"Don't drink it anymore," he explained. "Keeps me up at night, makes me jittery. Don't want any nerves today."

Harry motioned for his cup. Too much caffeine was the least of his worries. After pouring him a fresh mug, Ruth took up a chair beside Malcolm. Harry chose to remain standing.

"Ruth saw Gavrik last night at the restaurant."

"He was meeting Ariadne Kolos," she added.

"And then there was your sighting of that Eddie chap yesterday," said Malcolm.

"Three different parties all on one island," Harry mulled. "We know that Ariadne lied and is working with Gavrik, but to what end?"

"It's pretty obvious," said Ruth. "Her firm helps foreign entities navigate British law."

"Or circumvent it," Malcolm pointed out.

"Follow the money." Harry gestured at the laptop.

"Do you have the devices?" Malcolm asked Ruth.

She nodded and went into the bedroom, leaving the two men alone.

"If anything happens, we'll be able to slip away," Malcolm said. "She'll be the one left alone at the bank."

"She won't be alone."

"There is no British consulate here to step in should we run afoul of the law."

"The government wouldn't save us at any rate," Harry gave Malcolm a blank look. "We're dead."

Malcolm tilted his head in agreement, there was no argument to that point. Ruth returned and placed a set of earrings on the table.

"It's pretty standard," Malcolm pulled out a necklace from his bag. " The earrings are the receiver, and this necklace is the communicator. You will hear us and we will be able to hear whoever you are talking to."

Ruth ran a finger over the necklace, her eyes wide with appreciation. Between a set of iridescent pearls sat the charm of a delicate shell, a piece of jewellery entirely suited to the island but with all the hallmarks of an upscale purchase. Malcolm's attention to detail the product of years of experience. A strange look flitted across Ruth's face, and Harry studied her reaction. He had not seen her wear a necklace of such fashion since her early days on the Grid. Was it a reminder of her past life when her tastes had run to more extravagant fare? She picked up the piece and her face softened, revealing an earlier incarnation of herself, one that she had left behind. It was unfair of him to ask her to reinvent herself once again.

"It's beautiful," she murmured.

"Of course, the pearls aren't real but they're a pretty good imitation."

Her other hand reached up to the more subtle chain around her neck. "I guess I'll have to take this one off."

"It would be better if you did," said Malcolm. 'It might interfere with the transmission."

Her fingers blindly searched for the clasp at the back of her neck. Harry stepped around behind her and she lifted her hair granting him access to unhook the chain. As he slipped the chain from her neck, he was overcome by a feeling of loss, an act of tenderness in reverse, a rewind of a few nights earlier when he had placed it around her neck. Distracted, she did not reach for the old chain but concentrated on the new necklace. He could not blame her for admiring the new piece. His fingers curled around the fine chain, hiding it in his palm. Did it mean more to him, this piece of jewellery that he had enshrined on his bedside table, his only comfort in the darker nights? He secreted it away, forgotten by the others as they continued the conversation.

"There are three people in the offices," Malcolm explained. "Alexander Flores, the CEO, and his junior partner, Lars de Bakker."

"That's quite the international consortium." Ruth picked up the earrings.

That's why you're going in as Eva de Vries."

"Why can't I go in as Charlotte Hennessy?"

"That legend is fully backstopped, we need to keep it clean. This one only has a financial fingerprint."

"I'm not that well versed in Dutch."

Don't worry, it's merely a ploy to align you with de Bakker. Fellow countrymen and all that."

Ruth nodded and clipped the earrings into place. Harry had not spoken, silently absorbing their conversation, noting the subtle differences that had overtaken her. The transformation was complete. Gone was the black dress, winter boots and silver chain. She was all in white. Somehow, the new ensemble, though less formal than her previous attire, gave her an air of command. And she looked younger, dishearteningly younger.

"One last piece." Malcolm pulled out a ring and popped the stone. "You don't have to download information onto this. Just find a port and insert it. Let me know when it's in and I just need a few seconds to infiltrate the system."

"No problem at all, I'm sure they'll be happy to let me sit at one of their terminals."

Harry's hand stirred, wanting to take the ring and slip it onto her finger, but he was too slow. She placed it on her left hand and then frowned, deciding to use the right finger instead. The large stone stood out against her small hand, the ring binding her to the mission but not to him. He would find another occasion to act.

"We'll take care of the distraction," he advised. "You just have to look after the tech."

"Once the malware is in place, I'll give you the signal and you can leave." Malcolm reached into his briefcase. "Here are the papers."

Ruth took the file, raising her brow at the name on the document. "I thought Sasha signed these over to the government."

"Perhaps he should have taken the time to read them," said Harry. "But I think he was more interested in keeping the money away from his father."

"And am I asking for any funds?"

"No," Malcolm answered. "Keep them mired in paperwork. You are only there to make sure the accounts are correctly transferred over into the name of your holding company."

Harry looked at his watch. "It's just past noon."

"Where did the morning go?" she asked, her eyes meeting his.

If he allowed himself, he could lose himself in those eyes and forget that Malcolm was in the room. Take her hand and walk out through the sliding door.

"You'll have to take a taxi into town," he told her. "Sorry, but it's better that we're not seen together."

"Yes, you're right."

"I'm leaving now. There are a few things I need to attend to." He ignored Ruth's look of question.

"We need a safe word," Malcolm pointed out. "In case Ruth needs immediate assistance."

"Paris," she offered.

The word hung in the air, a silent challenge, waiting for Harry's rebuke. Without meeting her eyes, he nodded his assent to her choice. The discussion was not over, merely postponed. He would never be able to win an argument with this woman.

.

A thickly sliced piece of lime sat wedged into the top of the bottle. Harry, having witnessed patrons drinking the ale the night before, tapped the fruit and sent it sliding down the neck, watching as it floated in the pale liquid. He took a swig of the drink and raised an appreciative brow; the beverage was far lighter than the stout he usually enjoyed but somehow more fitting for the heat of the island. Eyes hidden behind dark glasses, he scanned his fellow patrons. The only solo diner on a patio of couples, he relaxed in his chair, seemingly unperturbed by his status. The conversation from a few tables over floated to him, an American husband and wife on holiday. The future flitted across his eyes, him sitting in cafes of unknown cities, people watching, alone. He took a long draught of his ale. Shake it off. A waitress appeared and stood by his table, skirt shy of indecency, her hips tilted at a jaunty angle.

"Ready to order?"

Harry barely looked at her, giving the impression that he was immune to her charms. "What would you suggest?"

"There's the scallops." She leaned her hip against his table, bending over to point out the selection on his menu, revealing a hint of cleavage. "Or there's the lobster tail."

After years of cultivation, it was hard to shake off the command of authority, but Harry knew that some found this aloof behaviour a challenge. He surmised that the waitress was one of those women. He would let her believe she had cracked his shell. He gave her his most charming smile and lowered his voice.

"A bit of tail would be nice."

She gave him a cheeky grin and sauntered away. Harry sat up straighter in his seat. Perhaps he still had a bit of the charisma that had served him well in his youth. His mark, after all, was also a middle-aged man, and Harry banked on the appeal of the young woman as the main reason for his daily return. It took only a few minutes for his hunch to bear fruit. Further up the block, a man in a linen suit exited the offices of Aviva Management. He crossed the street, his assured stride exuding money and confidence. Harry narrowed his eyes at the man's cool demeanour, a trickle of sweat running between his shoulder blades. Flores took a seat a few tables over from Harry. As predicted, the waitress sidled up to the man's table, the same motion with her hip, pointing to the menu. It would seem that he was not the sole recipient of her charms, Harry mused. Ah, well. He took another sip of his beer and fished out his mobile. Giving the impression he was half-heartedly checking a message, he fired off a quick text and sat back. The waitress walked away, Flores tilting his head as he followed her retreating form. His eyes landed on Harry's table. Rather than shirk from the discovery, Harry half raised his bottle in commiseration. The man nodded with a crooked smile.

A taxi trundled down the street and pulled up in front of Aviva Management. A second later, it pulled away. She stood on the pavement, the breeze fluttering the hem of her white dress, her eyes hidden behind overly large sunglasses. His heart thudded, struck by her beauty. If they parted and he was one day to catch a glimpse of her on a foreign street, he would have the same reaction. He curbed the impulse to rise from the table and cross over to her. A car drove past, honking at an unsuspecting pedestrian, and Ruth jumped with a start. There was no indication that she had even noticed his presence at the table.

Harry blinked, returning to reality. He raised his hand and motioned to the waitress.


	16. Chapter 16

_A/N - Everything packed into one last chapter. Thank you so much for reading!_

* * *

No one would blame her if she turned around and walked away. It would be so easy to do as Harry suggested; abandon the plan and return to the little deck of their cottage, spend the afternoon drinking sangria and the evening in even more pleasurable pursuits. But she was here now. The hem of her dress fluttered in the breeze. Hand trembling, Ruth patted down the fabric with nervous fingers; act confident even if it was illusory. He was watching; without even looking, she sensed his presence at the cafe across the street. Eyes barely skimming over her surroundings, she took in his blue shirt and dark glasses, casually sipping on a drink. A rather fetching waitress approached his table, and Ruth turned her back on the scene, an irrational spate of jealousy overtaking her. A subtle brass plaque marked an unassuming door, barely signalling the offices of Aviva Management. It was a place not meant to be found. She stiffened her shoulders, brief words of encouragement scrolling through her mind. The breeze came again, lifting her skirt and urging her on. The skin on the back of her neck tingled; the tightening follicles of adrenaline, she told herself, but she could not shake the suspicion that another pair of eyes surveilled her from a different angle. Shrugging off her uncertainty, she put her faith in Harry's vigilance. Paranoia was always wise, but not to a crippling degree. She touched a finger to the earing of her right ear, and then adjusted the tiny shell of her necklace.

"I'm going in."

"Good luck," Malcolm's faint voice answered in her ear.

Hand on the door pull, she took a steadying breath.

The interior of the building was nothing like she had expected, but then again it was no ordinary investment company. The comfort of carefully controlled air greeted her as she walked into a softly lit anteroom, amply padded chairs sitting under the amber glow of mica shaded lights. Ruth removed her sunglasses, her eyes taking a moment to adjust to the dimness. A woman sat behind a large oak desk, outfitted in a far smarter fashion than any receptionist Ruth had ever previously encountered. The whole interior of the building exuded indifferent regard to the cost of each item. The woman spoke quietly into a headset as she held her hand up for Ruth to wait. Ending the call, she turned, raising an immaculate eyebrow in judgement. Through sheer force of will, Ruth stilled her fidgeting fingers from rising to play with her necklace. There was no reason to feel inferior; her dress was fashionable, her jewellery elegant, a tasteful package meant to telegraph subdued wealth. She only needed to match her nerves to the boldness of her accessories.

"Good afternoon." The receptionist offered up a mechanical smile, boarding on the edge of dismissal. "Can I help you?"

The instinct for cordiality was hard to fight, after all, it had been Ruth's modus operandi for years, the best way to elicit information from a source was always with honey, not vinegar, but the type of clientele that would use the services of Aviva Management would not instantly default to politeness. No weak words of appeasement. Insulated by wealth, they demanded service.

"Yes, I'm here to discuss my portfolio."

The receptionist frowned. 'I'm sorry but we don't have any appointments available today."

Ruth inhaled, shoring up her vertebrae in a line of determination. Be firm, leave no room for dissuasion; she could not let herself be deterred. "I'm only on the island for a few days."

"We don't see clients without an appointment."

The woman's voice was firm, she had dealt with demanding clients before, there was a reason why she was the gatekeeper. Ruth would be hitting her head against a wall if she carried on with that particular tact. As she stood in front of the unbending receptionist, an image flashed through her mind; blonde hair, patrician demeanour, the subtle edge of menace. Ros. She recalled every detail about the former Section Chief and summoned the woman's traits to the fore. Ruth looked over the head of the receptionist, relegating the woman to the ranks of the proletariat, a mere insect to be dealt with.

"If there is no one available, I'm happy to move my account to a more accommodating firm."

Masking the worry in her eyes, the receptionist gave Ruth a quick smile. "Mr Flores is out of the office but I can see if Mr de Bakker is available."

Ruth did not respond but gave the woman an icy look, silently telling her that they could have saved themselves the pain of the awkward discussion if she had only suggested that in the first place.

"If I could get your name please."

Ruth's mind stuttered as she cycled through her legends, an alias wrapped inside an alias. "De Vries." She didn't bother with the given name, that was reserved for management.

The receptionist escorted Ruth to an interior office, shoes silently treading on the carpet. Ruth pushed away thoughts of doubt. Surely, compared to stealing a laptop from the American Embassy this would be a walk in the park. The receptionist opened the office door, revealing a young man, arms akimbo as he hurriedly shrugged himself into a suit jacket.

"Good afternoon, Ms de Vries." He held out his hand and then motioned for Ruth to have a seat. "Is that Dutch?"

"Yes, it is."

Ruth smiled, praying that he wouldn't want to make small talk in the language, running through the list of excuses that she had prepared to extract herself from any such conversation. Thankfully, he only smiled at their shared nationality but did not follow up with any probing questions. She sat down, her eyes roaming over his desk, taking in the monitor, the hard drive not immediately visible. It must be beneath the desk.

"I understand you want to talk about your portfolio." He put on a pair of dark-rimmed glasses, giving him a more business-like air. "I have to tell you that because of the way the accounts are structured here, a name isn't always attached to it. Forgive me if I ask you for the number and holding company."

"I've recently acquired a partial title to this company." She reached into her handbag and extracted a folder. She pulled out the top document and handed it over to him.

The smile fell from his face. "This is Sobel Holdings."

"I wish to reinvest my share." She pulled another document from the file and placed it before him. "Is there a problem?"

De Bakker cleared his throat as he smoothed away a non-existent crease in his tie. "We've just had a heads up regarding this account."

"From who?"

"The British government."

The muscle in her lip twitched, but she instantly stilled the rest of her face from reacting. The wheels in her mind spun into overdrive. The government was interceding on Gavrik's behalf. Perhaps it had been the presence of Six that she had sensed out on the street. She swallowed, expecting de Bakker to push a button and the office door to crash open as agents of the Treasury swept in to carry her away. She ordered her thoughts, running through what little she knew of international finance. A voice sounded in her ear. It was the calm voice of Malcolm, listing off suggestions. She translated them into her own words.

"Is there any sort of paperwork? An injunction? Freezing of assets?" she asked with a raised brow. "Because I am not aware of any."

"Ah, no there isn't."

"And as you can plainly see, I have all the correct documentation."

"You see, Ms de Vries, lately laws have become a bit more stringent about offshore transparency. We don't want to draw any unnecessary attention to our firm."

A laugh bubbled on her lips. Transparency? The accounts that Sasha had signed over had the transparency of a black hole. She paused once more as Malcolm whispered in her ear.

"Of course," she conceded. "I'd rather not bring my lawyers into this, but if that is where this is heading." She shrugged her shoulders. "Obviously, any legal action would generate a different kind of exposure, one that might make your other clients a bit jittery. Is that the sort of attention you want?" She smiled, eyes drilling into him, she would slice him with a thousand cuts and leave no blood behind. "In fact, once the courts have ruled in my favour, I would no doubt be granted significant financial compensation from your firm."

In an effort to buy time, de Bakker took off his glasses and repositioned them on his nose. "We value the privacy of our clients. Due to the...um... the sensitivity of this account, I would need to consult with my partner." He turned to his computer and opened a window. "If we could make an appointment for tomorrow…"

"I won't be here tomorrow."

"I see. Unfortunately, he's out of the office at the moment. If you would like to wait for him."

Having tasted the ambrosia of entitlement, she did not hesitate to drain the glass dry. "Obviously, you value your clients' privacy but not their time." She closed the file with a definitive swipe.

"I'll call him." The young man picked up the receiver and quickly punched a string of numbers into the desktop phone.

.

Harry lifted the bottle to his lips, finishing off the dregs of his ale, tampering down the temptation to order another. He knew what was coming. The lobster tail devoured, Harry licked the residual butter from his fingers and dabbed a napkin to the side of his mouth. His mobile buzzed, vibrating on the table. It was a text from Malcolm. Two tables over, a ringtone chimed, and Flores reached into his suit pocket. Harry raised his hand, signalling to the waitress for the bill and received a nod of confirmation. Over at the bar, she placed a newly drawn pitcher of ale on her tray. Harry rose from the table, absently patting his pockets as he searched for his billfold. Flores pressed the button on his mobile, his attention focused on answering the call. In a moment of celestial providence, the waitress orbited around Flores' table, the suds of ale lapping over the rim of the precariously balanced pitcher. Seemingly absorbed in finding his money, Harry took two steps backwards, the line of his trajectory intersecting with the path of the waitress. Following the laws of motion, bodies collided, and the waitress lost command of her tray. The pitcher of ale tumbled over the edge, spilling onto the table, drenching the material of Flores' immaculately tailored suit. The man shot up from his seat, a stream of expletives pouring forth as his chair scuttled back and crashed into the table of the neighbouring Americans. The woman screamed as her drink toppled into her lap, spewing forth a barrage of equally colourful insults directed at Flores. Flores reverted to his native tongue, the meaning of his words needing no translation. The woman's partner, a man who obviously frequented the clubs of higher fitness, rose from the table to defend her honour. The waitress offered up her apologies along with towels and napkins. The patrons at another table tried to defuse the situation but it was to no avail. Words escalated, fueled by alcohol and the heat of the afternoon sun. Harry subverted a smile. He could not have asked for a better demonstration of cause and effect.

.

"Hello? Hello?" de Bakker spoke into his phone, eyes darting over to Ruth. Not receiving a reply, he replaced the receiver in the cradle. "Must be poor reception."

An urgent knock sounded on the door and the receptionist peeked around the corner. "Do you have a minute?"

"I'm with a client."

An engineered smile was frozen on her face, and the woman's eyes bulged indicating that de Bakker's attention was required but she could not divulge the reason.

"Excuse me for a minute," de Bakker apologised.

With a sigh of resignation, Ruth nodded her consent. The man left the office, and to Ruth's delight, he closed the door behind him. Not knowing the effectiveness of Harry's diversion, she wasted no time prevaricating but quickly walked around to the opposite side of the desk. De Bakker had not logged off; the screen remained opened with an appointment calendar and a half-finished game of solitaire. Wonderful; she did not have to waste precious time sorting through his password. There was no tower or modem, so she quickly deduced that it was an all in one system. Flipping open her ring, she extracted the tiny USB stick and slipped it into a port on the monitor and spoke to the room, hoping Malcolm would hear.

"It's in."

"Good job," his voice whispered in her ear.

Her eyes travelled nervously over a shelf of books and a diploma from a second tier management school. Too late to wonder if there was any sort of monitoring equipment concealed behind the volumes. She tapped her fingers on the desk, senses on alert, ready to remove the stick should the door crack open. She waited for the all-clear from Malcolm.

.

The crowd of curious onlookers in front of the cafe grew, as one by one more patrons added their voices to the argument. The manager along with various members of the kitchen staff entered the mix, attempting to neutralise an already heady situation. Harry extracted a number of bills from his wallet and left a hefty sum on the table, a moment of guilt for the disturbance that he had caused. His attention hovering above the fray, he saw the red-banded caps of the island's police force approaching far in advance. As Harry predicted, bystanders transformed into participants, concentric circles of chaos flowing out onto the street. Harry retreated, picking his way through shattered glass, sidestepping an overturned table. He paused to assess the opposite side of the street. A man and a woman stood in front of Aviva Management, frozen, stunned at the realisation that their managing partner was at the vortex of the incident. Two police officers stepped onto the patio, hands raised in an attempt to temper the crowd. Harry slunk into the restaurant and headed for the rear exit. The lack of tall buildings and the illuminating rays of an ever-present sun meant there were no dark alleys in which to hide. Exposed, Harry quickly immersed himself into a crowd of tourists, walking with them as they milled along the street. In the midst of the holiday merrymakers, Harry sensed a figure with a more malevolent disposition. Nearing a souvenir stand, he idly picked up a postcard, using the opportunity to scan the crowd. Perhaps it was a patron from the cafe, wise to Harry's role as the instigator of the chaos, looking to exact some form of citizen justice. A mirror sat atop a rack filled with sunglasses, and Harry inched toward it, the reflection giving him a view of a conspicuously shorn head. He replaced the postcard and headed down the street. Eyes darting back and forth, he cursed the lack of dark alleys and hidden crevices in which to dispose of an unwanted tail. He would use what he had. It was a plan lacking in elegance, but there was no other choice. Turning on his heel, he abruptly changed direction and walked straight toward the man that was following him.

"Benny!" he exclaimed as he grabbed the man's hand and pulled him into an embrace. "It's good to see you."

Bewildered by Harry's actions, the man tried to pull away but was unsuccessful. Harry drew him in closer, the tattoo on the man's neck visible as he struggled. Harry's hand slid down the man's back, the outline of a gun discernable beneath the cotton shirt.

"I certainly hope you have the proper license for that," Harry hissed into the man's ear.

The crowd continued to ebb around them, offering Harry a form of protection. The man was younger, smelling of ex-military, and could probably overpower him in a minute. In any other circumstance, Harry might think twice about confronting what appeared to be an armed assassin, but out in the crowd lurked a second pair of eyes ready to step in should the need arise. The knowledge reinforced Harry's boldness and he twisted the man's arm.

"Who are you?"

.

The fabric of time stretched, and seconds passed with the crawl of an eternity. Ruth's hand hovered over the USB drive, ready to pull it out of the port the moment Malcolm alerted her. She closed her eyes, silently urging him to hurry. The virus must have infiltrated the system by now. The door handle clicked, and without thinking, she reflexively pulled out the drive.

"Hello." A female voice spoke in greeting.

Ruth raised her head, expecting the receptionist. Her fingers fumbled and she struggled to retain her grip on the USB drive when she realised the woman's identity; it was Ariadne Kolos. Ruth secreted the stick in her palm, unable to reattach it to her ring without arousing suspicion. The woman stood in the doorway, cool and composed, her figure accentuated by the cut of an elegant silk suit. She stepped into the room, the door closing behind her, the latch giving a menacing snap.

"It's so nice to finally meet you, Miss Evershed."

"I beg your pardon?" Ruth's heart pounded in her chest, surprise and fear accelerating its tempo. "I'm Eva de Vries."

"Come now, playing dumb doesn't suit you. Especially someone so lauded for their intelligence. Thank you, by the way, for all your hard work." Ariadne took a step closer and held out her hand. "You can give me the device now, Ruth."

"What device?" Ruth stuttered, her voice a dry rasp.

"The one you just took out of the computer."

Desperate to draw out the conversation in order to find an opportunity to insert a plea for help, Ruth grasped the first thread that came to mind. "Gavrik sent you, didn't he?"

"If that's what you want to believe."

Ruth ran through her mental checklist of the woman; stolen identity, embedded in a financial firm, her appearance on the island. "You're FSB."

Ariadne motioned to Ruth's hand. "All that work for nothing. It won't make a difference. Your government doesn't care."

"I'm sure someone does."

"And then what? Are you going to sail off into the sunset with Harry? You put a lot of faith in a man who was enjoying dinner with me mere weeks after you had died."

Biting her tongue, Ruth swallowed her rebuttal; it was the same tactic that Elena had tried, sow doubt by exploiting the cracks in her relationship with Harry. She would not rise to the bait. Harry hadn't even known that she was alive. Fingers tightened on the USB stick as she reigned in her anger.

"Who says I trust him? After this, I'm going to Paris. I have no idea what his plans are." She wanted to say the word over and over again, spell it out if necessary. There was no voice in her ear, no calming reassurances from Malcolm. Harry was at the cafe across the street, how long would it take him to reach the office?

Ariadne took a step closer. "I don't want to have to hurt you."

Riding the edge of panic, Ruth's eyes dropped to the blotter on the desk, the surface distressingly free of clutter, devoid of a stapler or a hole punch, anything to use as a weapon against the woman.

"Either you can give it to me freely," Ariadne proposed, "Or I can pull it from your dead hand."

The door remained stubbornly closed. No one was coming to her rescue. What was the purpose of having a safe word if no one acted on it? Perspiration from her palm covered the USB drive, the plastic sliding between her fingers. There was nothing on it, only a worm, but Ruth suspected that even if she did relinquish the drive Ariadne would not let her leave the place alive. Knowledge was a weapon, it was all she had, so Ruth did what any desk spook would do in her place. She picked up the computer monitor, ripping it free from the network of attached cords and hurled it at Ariadne. With a cry of surprise, the woman raised her arms to defend herself, the machine knocking her off balance and sending her back into the bookcase. Ruth bolted to the door, arms outstretched as she reached for the knob. Her head jerked back with a sudden movement, the string of her necklace constricting around her neck. Gasping for breath, Ruth reached up to the chain, refusing to relinquish the USB drive. Her fingers clawed at the beads, her windpipe closing as the decorative shell dug into the soft flesh of her throat. She closed her eyes, lungs panicking at the remembrance of disappearing oxygen. No, they had taken her life once, she would not let them do it again. With one final tug, the string broke, pearls and shells flying in every direction. Possessed with inarticulate rage, Ruth slammed her elbow back into Ariadne's ribcage. Twisting and turning to evade the woman's grasp, she stumbled out into the waiting area. Sitting at the reception desk was Mark Wilson. The shock of seeing the man did nothing to slow her steps, in fact, it only served to add fuel to her flight. Ruth rushed out onto the street, temporarily blinded by the abrupt exposure to sunlight. She headed toward the cafe but her progress was stopped by a wall of bodies. Red and white lights strobed across the walls of the buildings. What on earth had Harry done? Jostled by the crowd, she vainly searched for any sign of a blue shirt.

"Ruth? Ruth?"

She turned thinking someone was standing at her shoulder. It was Malcolm speaking through the comms device.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

Her hand rose to her throat. The necklace was gone, she had no way of communicating with him.

"I can't reach Harry," he continued.

Surrounded by a sea of noise, Ruth struggled to hear Malcolm, his voice nothing more than static in her ear. Behind her, she glimpsed Wilson and Ariadne pushing their way through the throng in an effort to reach her. She froze in horror. Preoccupied with the USB drive, she had forgotten to take her bag and the file with the account documents. Maybe there was a way to retrieve them; circle around the block and go back in. Keeping her head down, Ruth shouldered her way through the crowd, taking advantage of her short stature to stay below the radar. As the crowd thinned out, she broke into a half run, heading down a street that she hoped would take her back around to the door of Aviva Management. A curtain of late afternoon heat wrapped around her skin, perspiration pricking at her temple, drops sliding down her spine. Her side twinged in warning; she had already exerted herself too much that day. She stumbled, the heel of her sandal catching on a rut in the pavement and snapping off. She swore but continued on; there was no time to stop. Her pace hampered by her footwear, she cantered along with an uneven gait. She reached an intersection. As she stepped off the kerb, a car screeched to a halt in front of her, barely missing her leg, the hem of her dress brushing against the door.

"Get in!" Harry yelled.

She opened the door and jumped into the car. Tyres squealed as he pulled away.

"Where the hell were you?" she demanded in lieu of a greeting.

"I was detained," Harry motioned to the back seat. "There's your purse and the file. You're welcome."

"Thank god." She massaged the base of her neck "And I'm fine. Thanks for asking."

She reached forward and adjusted the direction of the air conditioning vent, catching a glimpse of her self in the side mirror. She looked like a wreck. The car swerved as Harry corrected his steering, momentarily forgetting the correct side of the road

"I ran into a friend of yours," he said. "Eddie, I believe is his name. Learned a piece of interesting information. The team that had you were GRU operatives, and they are after Gavrik's money just as we are."

"You're telling me that Russian military intelligence was holding me in order to find out information on Gavrik's finances?"

Harry nodded. "Looks that way. Did you get the USB drive in?"

"Yes, but I don't know if it was in long enough for Malcolm to access their system."

The car pulled up to the cottage. Harry glanced in the rearview mirror before turning off the engine. After all the excitement, the silence of the tranquil setting was deafening. He leaned toward her and gave her leg a pat of reassurance.

"We're almost there." He opened his door and stepped out of the car.

Ruth reached into the backseat and collected her bag. She would not let go of it again. Her door banged with a thud of frustration and she rushed to catch Harry.

"What do you mean almost there?" Ruth yelled after him. "Harry?" She hobbled in his wake, speaking to his back as they entered the cottage. "What are you talking about?"

Malcolm had not moved from the table where they had left him earlier that day. He stood up, a look of relief crossing his face. "Thank goodness, I didn't know what had happened to you."

"Sorry," Ruth apologised, motioning to her throat. "It was either me or the necklace."

"What happened?" Harry asked.

Giving Harry a look of disbelief, Ruth sputtered out her words. "I said Paris but no one came."

"I came but you weren't there," Harry protested.

"If I had waited for you, she would have killed me," Ruth countered.

"I had no idea where you were."

"Well, we are all here now." Malcolm held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "Why don't we have a look at what I've found."

"You were able to get in? Wonderful." Ruth adjusted the bag on her shoulder as she looked at the laptop.

"What are we looking at?" Harry asked.

Malcolm pointed to the screen. "It would seem that Gavrik's fortunes were not entirely amassed from Kaspgaz, but rather dealings in Syria, Sudan, and Columbia. And that's just the major players."

"He's trading in weapons?" Ruth asked, not wholly surprised.

"And by welcoming Gavrik's money into the country our government is basically accepting the profits of the arms trade," Harry added.

"It's been funnelled through Better Britain and who knows what else. Do you think they know?" Ruth asked. "Do you think Everton Price knows this and that's why the government put an alert on the Sobel account?"

Harry frowned, the information about the Sobel alert news to him. "If you're asking if they would turn a blind eye to the origins of the money, I'm afraid they might."

"Especially if there are British nationals profiting from this arrangement," Malcolm added.

"Ariadne told me that our government wouldn't care. What do we do with this information? There must be someone we can trust."

"It's a snake eating its own tail."

"We have to go back, Harry. You're the only one who can expose this sort of thing."

His eyes met hers, the hypocrisy of her words inescapable. Only a short time ago she had asked him to leave the service, and now, here she was trying to convince him to jump back in. Harry slowly inhaled, a weary hand running through his hair.

"I can't, I'm dead. Remember? We're both dead."

Wood crashed against plaster as the front door slammed open against the wall. Ruth stepped toward Harry, and he instinctively raised his arm to protect her. Footsteps sounded on the tile as two men entered. Ruth's heart plummeted to her stomach, her initial assessment telling her that they were agents from the Treasury. On closer inspection, the bald head of one of the men suggested that he was more of a gun for hire. The two men quickly assessed the room and then stepped aside, leaving an opening for Ilya Gavrik.

"Harry," the Russian oozed. "They told me you were dead. It's good to see you've made such a speedy recovery."

"What do you want, Ilya?"

"My son's account, of course." Gavrik pointed at the laptop. "And any other information you may have obtained."

"I'm afraid I can't do that. The funds have already been disseminated and the information sent out."

"Not even you are that quick, Harry. There is no reason why we can't work this out to our mutual benefit. I have no argument with you, I will leave you in peace. I would hate for you to lose Miss Evershed. Again."

The younger bodyguard moved toward Ruth. Harry placed his body in front of her, stopping the man from completing his mission.

"Did you know that they were keeping her?"

Gavrik shrugged his shoulders with the concern of someone who had misplaced a book."I lost my wife, you lost Miss Evershed. The balance of the world was maintained."

"But I didn't take your wife - you killed her. I've been trying to figure it out, what sort of man does something like that. Cold, calculating, heartless. You didn't kill her because of some long forgotten betrayal, or because she was willing to sacrifice you and your son for her country. You killed her because she revealed the plan."

"That is the difference between you and me Harry. Country above all."

"That's not the difference. I kept my ideals - where are yours? The bastion of Soviet pragmatism now awash in the decadence of capitalism."

"I had no choice. I learned how to survive. After the Cold War, there was no plan to help rebuild our shattered country, no roadmap to democracy. You won and then you abandoned us. It was your neglect that created people like me."

"Don't blame me - it's your nature. Once KGB, always KGB."

"Once a spy, always a spy. You can't escape your fate no more than I."

"Let Ruth go, and I'll give you what you want."

"I have often found negotiating to be highly overrated." Gavrik motioned to his bodyguards. "Dispose of them."

In unison, the bodyguards reached into their jackets, ready to extract their firearms, but before they could complete the motion, the staccato pop of gunfire filtered through the walls. Confused, the two men looked at each other. A second shot echoed, and the two men realised that the sound was coming from outside the bungalow. Gavrik pointed to the front door, prompting the men to investigate.

The attention of their captors diverted, Malcolm snapped the laptop shut and pulled it off of the table. Harry grabbed Ruth's hand and yanked her toward the sliding door. He pulled her through the opening, stopping to push the wooden table in front of the glass. Malcolm jumped off the deck and onto the sand. Having no idea what was transpiring, Ruth followed him, fingers holding tightly to her shoulder bag. Her sandals slid in the sand, the missing heel adding a lack of balance to her struggle. Harry came alongside her and seized her hand, pulling her behind him. There was no opportunity to admire the setting sun as it reflected off the water. A band of pink, slipping into mauve, the shore holding its breath as it waited for twilight. Behind her, the cacophony of bangs continued. Surely, no gunfight would sound like that. Curiosity getting the better of her, she turned back to the bungalow. A burst of colour exploded in the sky, sparks of light glittering in the gloaming. Ruth stopped, awed by the sight. Harry tugged at her.

"Come on," he hissed.

"Where are we going?" she hissed back.

Turning away from the shore, they scrambled through a thicket of brush and came out onto the side of a road. A pair of headlights blinked off and on, signalling to them. Harry headed straight towards the idling car. Malcolm took his place in the front seat, and Harry opened the door, ushering Ruth into the back. In the growing darkness, Ruth could not make out the identity of the driver.

"Glad to see you took my advice about taking a vacation," Harry commented.

"A friend recommended that I visit the island."

The voice was unmistakable. "Tom?" Ruth asked. It must be a dream, she could barely process the developments.

"Fireworks are illegal on Turks and Caicos," Tom informed Harry as he manoeuvred the car out onto the road.

"Then you best not be found with any," Harry replied.

Ruth looked back through the rear window of the car. Streams of light shot upward, bursting forth into an umbrella of multi-coloured stars. Weighted with sadness, her heart sank. It was a pyrotechnic farewell. Paradise abandoned, perhaps never to be found again.

"My clothes," she said wistfully.

"That's why you should never unpack," Harry told her.

Giving a huff of annoyance, she sat back in her seat. "You never told me where we were going?"

Tom pressed his foot to the accelerator, confidently cruising over the poorly lit road.

"How long until they figure everything out?" Malcolm asked.

"I'm sure they have already done so." Harry reached over to the front seat and placed his hand on Tom's shoulder.

"Thank you."

"It's on my bill."

"The money will be in your account."

"Money? What money?" Ruth asked. "Gavrik was right, we didn't have time to do anything,"

Malcolm cleared his throat. "Once you're in, it only takes a few seconds for money to disappear."

"We can't keep any of that money," she protested. "It's dirty, made on the back of arms deals."

"Don't worry," Malcolm consoled her. "A number of underfunded government organisations are receiving hefty donations."

"Did you let our friends from GRU know Gavrik's location?" Harry asked Tom.

"Yes, they were pulling up when I left."

Harry directed his next words to Malcolm. "Get that information back to the team. Get Erin's thoughts on it and if she is unable to act, leak it to the press."

Tom made a sharp turn, directing the car down a bumpy dirt lane. The vehicle pulled to a stop among the swaying frons of head high reeds. Harry opened the door and stepped out of the car, leaving Ruth no choice but to follow him. Tom came around to the rear of the car and opened the boot. Inside, sat four suitcases, one of them the ugly brown bag belonging to Ruth. Tom lifted out each case and set them on the ground.

"We'll ditch the car here," Tom explained as he quietly closed the door. "I'll carry your bag for you, Ruth."

Tom slipped through the reeds, followed by Malcolm. Harry gestured for Ruth to proceed him.

"What's going on?" she asked.

The tall grass ended, revealing a small dock with two boats moored on either side. Tom approached one and passed his case over to a man, apparently the captain of the craft. The skipper then took Malcolm's bag. No one spoke, the only sound the rhythmic tapping of the boat hulls as they bobbed against the dock. Ruth searched Harry's face, looking for an explanation. He took her hand, pulling her a few paces away from the other men.

"Tom and Malcolm are flying back to London," Harry explained. "You can go with them."

Ruth's mouth opened in confusion, trying to process the meaning behind his words. "I don't understand."

"You wanted a life together, but I'm not sure if this is the sort of life you meant."

The sea sloshed between the half rotting boards of the dock, water sprinkling on her exposed toes. Missing a heel, she stood listing to the left, one leg higher than the other, dust from her flight cakes on her arms, the skin on her throat still tingling with the imprint from the beads. There was no quiet without chaos with this man. Strong fingers grasped her slender hand, clutching, releasing, as he warred with an inner obstacle.

"Malcolm will help get you sorted. You can live as Ruth Evershed again."

"What do you mean?" Her voice cracked.

"With every lie we tell we lose a piece of ourselves. That's what you said to me that day. I remember it all, everything I said to you. I can't ask you to tell the biggest lie, to lose yourself entirely.

She grabbed onto his sleeve. "Where are you going?"

"The world has changed. It's time for me to step down. My past will always be nipping at my heels. You deserve better." He tugged her in closer. "My life ended when you died, but it would break what's left of my heart to know that I was stopping you from living."

He brought his lips down to hers, the suddenness of the gesture knocking her off of her already imbalanced heels. His arms wrapped around her waist, catching her in the folds of his embrace. The kiss deepened, emotion flowing forth and then slowly ebbing away; the firm pressure of capture followed by the soft abdication of release. When they parted, her lips throbbed with the ache of loss, an echo of the other parting kisses they had shared. He turned away, leaving her immobilized by bewilderment. She sensed Tom and Malcolm sitting in the opposite vessel, waiting for her to join them. Harry stepped down into the boat, the craft rocking as it took his weight. With a deft hand, the skipper unknotted the ropes at the stern and then moved to the bow. Her feet remained rooted to the dock, mind grappling with consequences. The things they had done, what they had seen. There was no rest for the likes of them. What did she deserve? The engine of the boat purred to life. What was he doing?

Paris. She had told Ariadne that she was going to Paris, and Harry had taken the statement at face value.

"Harry!" she shouted, not caring if her voice drew attention to their location. She hobbled over to the boat and looked down at him. "Stupid man. I never said I wouldn't go with you."

He looked up at her, his teeth showing white in the dusk, and for a fleeting moment, she wondered if it had all been part of a charade, a massive gamble on his part to see if she really would follow him anywhere. It didn't matter, she would make him pay. He raised his hand, offering to help her over the edge. She looked back at Tom and Malcolm, lifting her hand in a wave of thanks, saying goodbye to the security that they offered. The boat swayed as she set her foot on the deck, the precarious footing of the life she had chosen with this man. Harry led her to a seat at the stern of the boat and the captain pushed them away from the dock. Engaging the throttle, the boat picked up speed and set a course over the water. Ruth spoke over the hum of the engine.

"I guess I've always wanted to see New York."

Harry raised her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. "Do you know how many islands there are in the Caribbean? Don't answer, you probably do. I think we might be able to lose ourselves on one."

Ruth narrowed her eyes at him. "You took some of Gavrik's money, didn't you?"

"Only the funds that would amount to our combined pensions. And a small finder's fee. And expenses."

The boat glided over the water, the wind whipping at her already tangled hair. Ruth shivered, the thin material of her dress little protection against the salty breeze. Harry put his arm around her shoulder and leaned into her ear.

You know there's a cabin down there," he whispered suggestively.

"There's also a captain," she reminded him.

"Maybe we could buy our own boat. A cottage on the sea."

She smiled and kissed him, fear and frustration momentarily eclipsed, the stitch in her side and other wounds forgotten. Whatever pieces she had lost, she would find them with him, reclaim herself under the healing rays of the tropical sun. The boat bobbed over the waves, chasing the setting sun as it slipped into the west. Twilight gave one last sigh and surrendered it's light to the embrace of darkness. Far from shore, the small light of the boat grew dimmer, nothing more than a dot on the horizon, disappearing into the still of the night.


End file.
